


Effort and Ineffability

by Infinitely_Stranger



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alien Gender/Sexuality, Aziraphale is Bad at Being an Angel (Good Omens), Bad Flirting, Clueless Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is bad at his job, Deliberate historical anachronism, Fanart, Idiots in Love, Illustrations, Jane Austen Pastiche, Milton basically wrote fanfic, OR IS HE, Obscure references to authors, Other, References to Paradise Lost, Regency, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, The Nile is Also a River in Hampshire, a la Georgette Heyer, and artists, and regency culture, brigands!, cunning disguises, followed by spontaneous combustion, no beta we die like men, worse dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 35,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24398104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infinitely_Stranger/pseuds/Infinitely_Stranger
Summary: It's 1811, just east of Winchester, and Aziraphale and Crowley are going under cover.Who is the mysterious man-shaped being preying on passing coaches? How will Aziraphale evade unwanted marriage proposals? And what, exactly is trolly-lolly?God only knows. Probably........Somewhere in the depths of the internet, Neil Gaiman suggested that Aziraphale was probably a big fan of Georgette Heyer, regency romance writer extraordinaire, who you probably haven't heard of. This happened.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 72





	1. Effort and Ineffability - Cover

**Author's Note:**

> There's quite a lot of gender swappery within. Narration goes between Aziraphale and Crowley's private interactions, and outside perceptions. When it's written from an outsider's perspective, they are referred to with whichever pronouns people perceive them as. Otherwise, I've used he. I wanted to convey a sense that their identities are in parts quite different from how people perceive them. Tried it a lot of ways, liked this best. What even is gender?
> 
> Chapter titles are mostly dance moves from [An Analysis of Country Dancing](https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=hTQ-AAAAYAAJ&pg=PP10#v=onepage&q&f=false)

****

(book cover by me! apologies to Penguin)

This entire story was inspired by [this portrait](https://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O17795/miss-harriet-and-miss-elizabeth-portrait-miniature-smart-john/), and the snakey hair decoration therein.


	2. En Passant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A runaway horse, a chance encounter, a cunning plan!
> 
> (Also appearing, in order of obscurity: Dick Turpin, Jeremy Bentham, Sir Blackberry The Horse-Not-Appearing-in-this-Fic, St Agatha of Sicily)

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.

Fortunately, the distinguished Mr. Crowley was neither technically a man, nor did his fortune actually exist outside of the realm of infernal, but necessary, illusion, therefore he wasn’t technically in possession of said fortune, and was equally spared any want of wives, or indeed universally acknowledged truths. Mr Crowley, was, in fact, The Demon Crowley, foul fiend, original temper of Eden, former hanger of stars and other heavenly bodies, current hanger-on of the Damned and scourge of earth. The main heavenly body he dealt with nowadays was his hereditary enemy, rival, and favourite drinking companion, the angel Aziraphale, guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, foolish principality, book hoarder, and pastry connoisseur.

The only thing Crowley was currently in want of was a horse that would get him to the village of Little Storking by nightfall, ideally with a carriage attached, but in a ‘dark fiery hell steed’ sort of way. He could have also done with a strong drink and a back story, but those could be managed later. What he had instead was a runaway satanic hooved fiend (or ‘Blackberry’ as his owners had called him) a sore bottom, and a predicament that saw him lurking in a low-hanging tree and hoping that an unsuspecting victim with better transport and no weaponry would venture down the lane. By infernal coincidence, as he had this thought, the clop and rattle of a coach made itself known over the incessant rain. Brilliant.

Moments later the most ridiculous coach he’d ever seen appeared round the road’s bend. It was white, which was a silly colour in this climate, what with it raining grey water from above and mud from below almost constantly. By the time he’d noticed that the pale wheels and pale underside of the thing were oddly unmarred, it was too late.

‘Oh no,’ groaned Crowley, with a sense of knowing dread, as gravity carried him down from the tree to land atop the coach.

‘Unhand your-’ he began, before being cut off by the dreaded cry of,

‘How _dare_ you- my goodness me! Crowley!’ as a glowingly incensed face popped out from the coach window.

Speak of the angel.

‘Aziraphale,’ he choked, putting on a charming, but not at all convincing, grin.

The coach juddered to a halt.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ the round, rosy face of Crowley’s rival was quickly followed by the (if memory of medieval baths served correctly) equally round, rosy torso.

The coachman appeared to have miraculously frozen.

‘Iiiii. Look it’s nothing personal,’ Crowley said with as much affected cool as one can have when crouching, muddy and drenched, and with twigs in at least three unspeakable places, atop the slippery coach of your hereditary enemy.

‘I should have _known_ it was you behind the brigands accosting these parts!’ Aziraphale sprang from the coach, miraculously avoiding any puddles with his cream shoes.

‘No! No, listen!’ Crowley protested, sliding off the coach top, ‘I’m not “in these parts”, haven’t been in these parts for more than an hour or so, when my stupid horse...’ he gestured, with a shudder.

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide as he took in the tree from which Crowley descended, his muddied morning dress, and sodden hat. He’d witnessed Crowley trying to mount one of the Hell-issued steeds before, and they’d both decided never to speak of the incident again.

‘I see. Then what is it you’re doing here, on business I suppose?’

‘Does it look like I’m here for pleasure?’ growled Crowley, from beneath his increasingly sodden morning hat.

‘Oh, my dear man!’ exclaimed Aziraphale, leaning closer, then adding in a more distrustful tone, ‘you didn’t tell me you had business out of London’.

‘I didn’t know myself,’ muttered Crowley, ‘last minute call, otherwise, believe me, this is one coin toss I would have been determined not to lose.’

‘That bad, eh? Is it the… oh dear. Journey by Hellish steeds again?’ 

Crowley swallowed a grimace, ‘Never. Perfectly under control. What about yourself. Pleasure or…?’

‘I’m afraid me neither. Strictly business, and quite last minute too.’

‘You don’t say?’ said Crowley, a thought occurred to him, ‘In Reading?’

‘Oh no, no, no, I’ll just be changing horses at the inn. Well it’s...no, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, official business and all that.’

‘It’s nothing to me,’ said Crowley, casually examining the fingertips of his black glove, ‘only makes things easier when I know that you’ll be out of my hair.’

‘Oh now, really! If you must know, I’m heading to Hampshire.’

‘Hampshire?! Not-’ they both glanced upwards, as though something in the sky might be watching them.

‘Oh no, you too?’ worried Aziraphale.

Crowley’s lip wrinkled, ‘Temptation just outside Winchester,’ he cringed.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, ‘The same! Well, mine’s a blessing, of course.’ 

Crowley hissed into the rain, ‘now we find out! I could have spared myself all this-!’ He gestured in the direction of the horse, the tree, and the mud-coated remains of his dignity.

‘Don’t be so certain, I might have won the coin toss, and then you’d have two jobs on your hands, and be horseless, _and_ coachless...although…’ Aziraphale looked a bit guilty.

‘Oh, ho ho, what is it, a bit of personal interest?’ inquired Crowley, swooping in, ‘Something in a library you were hoping to get your heavenly paws on?’

Aziraphale blushed down at his knees, as though he’d never consider such a thing, when he had, in fact, considered exactly such a thing at the Bodleian library not three weeks ago. ‘Nothing like that, no, no, just an author in the area that I was rather...well… only if time allows, you see.’

‘Right, right. I don’t suppose…’ Crowley glanced again at the coach. Much as its aesthetic made him shudder, and he’d be mocked halfway to doomsday if his dishonourable colleagues caught him riding in it, given the choice between frosted frippery and five more agonising hours on a half-crazed hell-steed, his bony hindquarters were all in favour of leaving dignity behind.

Aziraphale followed his gaze, ‘Well!’ he exclaimed, ‘now that I have you here, er, foul fiend, I can hardly allow you too…’ he cast about, ‘wile your way to Winchester unchecked!’

‘Think of the path of destruction I could leave in my wake! It would hardly reflect well on you.’

‘Precisely! I could be out of my position! Therefore I,’ he looked about. The coachman seemed to come to his senses. ‘I must insist! My coach is yours til your destination!’

‘Euurrgh,’ Crowley did his best to look as though he was mostly against this option, and his feet weren’t already slithering away from the prospect of demonic steeds as quickly as it could.

‘I only hope you won’t get in my way,’ mused Aziraphale, and Crowley’s ears perked up, ‘you see, these coach inns are rife with ill-repute, so I thought I could do some improving on the way down.’

‘Improving? I couldn’t allow that,’ said Crowley, legs picking up full swing, as Aziraphale shoved him into the coach.

He was, he noted, suddenly dry.

‘Don’t mention it,’ said Aziraphale, ‘I couldn’t have you dripping on the books!’

Crowley looked about him. He should have known. The only reason he was wedged, rather than comfortably expanding in the otherwise capacious carriage was because its seating had been filled with books. He raised an eyebrow at Aziraphale.

‘Well, it was a long journey, and I couldn’t be getting bored! Besides… I was afraid the ones in the trunk might get damp.’ He knocked on the roof, and the coach restarted, trundling down the road.

Crowley nearly commented, but thought the better of it.

‘Ooo just think,’ said Aziraphale, arranging himself primly in the space,‘there might even be highwaymen!’ his face lit up exactly like the face of someone who had read too many gothic romances in which the heroine, beset by highwaymen, was rescued by a dashing bemasked antihero that later turned out to be a well-intentioned count. Which would have been exactly accurate. Crowley found himself wondering if it had been the right decision to leave his brigand mask in London after all.

([1] _Dick Turpin, holding up traffic_ )

After a short while, they reached the coach inn outside of Reading, where they retired within for a quick bite while the horses were changed. Well, Aziraphale retired for a quick bite. Crowley retired for a quick drink, or four, as he stretched out his damp limbs by a crackling fire.

Once Aziraphale had finished waxing lyrical about the inn’s stew, which was, apparently, the best this side of London, and the only reason why he’d stopped there*, he leaned in with the subdued furtiveness of someone who’s a few tumblers in, and has forgotten why he’s acting furtive. ‘If you don’t don’t mind me asking, what _is_ the nature of your business? Purely for...organisational... reasons, you understand.’

* * *

(*It was also the only stew this side of London unlikely to have recognisable rodent bones in it, but nevermind that. Seems only yesterday honeyed dormice were a delicacy, and now they’re a reason to have your establishment mercifully burnt down.)

* * *

‘Er…’ Crowley rifled around in his waistcoat and pulled out a slip of off-looking parchment, ‘Chaps by the names of... Baston and Archer, Northfield Grange, something about assets in Antigua. Yours?’

The parchment, Aziraphale observed, had freckles, some pores, and a few hairs to one side. Before he could ascertain whether it was, in fact, growing an eyebrow, Crowley vanished it in a lick of Hellfire.

‘Oh, that’s alright then,’ said Aziraphale, skittishly, as Crowley snuffed out his fingers, ‘mine’s a smaller affair, blessing a marital union. I’m to stay with a family in a place called Edgewood Cottage. Wait, did you say Northfield? What was the name?’

‘Er yeah Baston, or Erston, or something, and Archer, of Northfield Grange. Hell writing’s a bit…’ he wiggled his hands in approximation of writing when you’re actually made out of maggots.

‘You’re sure it wasn’t Easton?’

Crowley swallowed, and Aziraphale presented an elegant scroll, with words embossed in gold.

> ‘... ye angel of the LORD shall appear unto the family Easton. There shall be a sign unto you over Northfield Grange, a STAR of the seventh order of brightness, and it shall go before ye for forty minutes and forty seconds, where LO you shall find the Cottage Edgewood. Please arrange own accomodation as there will be NO ROOM IN THE INN. Invoice for expenses incurred should be sent in triplicate to Nimdael in Celestial Resources.’

‘Eeeerrrrrg,’ Crowley’s breath escaped him.

‘They’ve done it again, haven’t they,’ said Aziraphale. Once more, their respective head offices had unwittingly sent them to the same place, which usually meant they’d also unwittingly sent them to do the equal and opposite job.

‘I mean… mine isn’t so much about Easton, per se, more about his business partner, or something. There’s no reason…’

‘Quite, quite, no reason our paths need even cross! I’m staying with the family, and-’

‘I’d arranged lodging at the village inn.’

‘“No room inn the inn”! Well, that explains that! See, I’m sure we can be perfectly professional and just get the job done.’

Crowley glowered, ‘I still say we’d get as far if we both went back to London...’

Aziraphale eyed him, ‘oh, no, I couldn’t possibly. It’s the principle of the matter. Ends and means, and all that. And I’ve already come all this way. Might as well finish the job,’ he sipped his Madeira, ‘I say, this _is_ rum fuddle!’[2]

Crowley already dreaded going back out into the rain, even if it included a miraculously damp-free coach, ‘Well, if you go, I go. Can’t have you thwarting away without me. Wz- Did you- “Rum fuddle!?”’

‘Mmmhm!,’ said Aziraphale appreciatively, over the top of his madeira.

(actual depiction of Crowley's last experience with a trap

‘You know,’ spoke Aziraphale, once they were again on their way, coach trundling on into the increasing gloom, ‘I’m rather glad I caught you.’

‘Oh?’ Crowley raised an eyebrow.

‘The thing is...the people I’m staying with… they have two daughters, and well, let’s just say I’m afraid it might complicate matters. I’m just a bit worried, after the fiasco in Highgate, that they might, you know… misunderstand, and it’ll all become a bit messy.’

‘You think they might try to marry one off to you?’

‘Well, it wouldn’t be the first time. I tried to explain to the head office, but they just don’t have a mind for the minutiae of earthly culture. You should have seen their faces when I mentioned the Poke Bonnet! I mean, obviously some of them don’t technically have heads, either just...wheels, and ...eyes, but the point is, my concerns were completely lost on them. If I fail at this though… well, the Powers that Be have been so variable lately, that I’d rather not risk it! First they reprimanded my frivolous miracles, and then a few years later they tried to commend and recall me from Earth! Goodness knows what they’ll do if I get...affianced out of my job!’

Crowley, who actively avoided dealing directly with human attachments by the powers of sheer laziness, and, if need be, terrifying serpent-like eyes, tongue, toes, and, in an emergency, teeth, gave a sympathetic shudder. The problem was, Aziraphale exuded love. He was technically made of it, at his core. Granted, it was of a general, charitable _agapē_ sort, but it did draw people to him. Sometimes their signals got mixed, and in a climate where most young women of a certain sort were dependent on their future matches for a living, it was a mix-up that many would no doubt willingly misinterpret as a prudent match, rather than a celestial cock-up.

‘Why don’t you switch it up then?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know - swap out the stockings and tailcoat for something a bit more flowy and less showy. You’re as naturally…’ he waved a hand at Aziraphale’s inherently-sexless-but-usually-man-shaped corporation, ‘as any of them, so if the shoe fits…’

‘That’s part of the problem, I’m not sure they will! The cobblers weren’t as accommodating as I’d hoped.’

‘Oh, so you’ve planned it already?’

Aziraphale fidgeted, ‘yes, I thought it might be best in this case, but still… well, it wouldn’t do to be a lady travelling alone, and I feel a bit, well, reticent. I’m not as flexible as you are.’ This was patently true, as Crowley’s originally serpentine form had never bothered to adopt the rules of human joints. It was also figuratively true, as Crowley historically picked up whichever robes, coats, sculpted underthings, or wigs happened to suit the mood, or the job, at the time.

‘Weeeelll, it’s not so much about flexibility,’ he said, ‘Most of it’s just decoration, the humans do the rest of the interpretation.’ Apart from the hair, Crowley had never bothered changing his corporation, except when bathhouses were involved, in which case both he and Aziraphale concluded early on that when in Rome (or Constantinople, or Nuremberg) it was best to blend in to avoid any unnecessary stares or, in one instance, attempted exorcism. 

‘I feel dreadfully out of practice!’ continued Aziraphale, who had been comfortably man-shaped since one unfortunate incident in Sicily in the 250s, ‘And the rules are so much more restrictive, it really is a pity. Eve was such a clever creature! Sometimes I do hate how the humans have run away with it.’

‘Don’t you dare look at me, Angel, you know that wasn’t me, I thought I was doing her a favour! She’s the one who thought she ought to share the fruit with Adam. She could’ve kept it to herself, and had the upper hand. Mind you, I still think Adam must not have chewed properly, in retrospect. Not the brightest torch in the sconce, that one.’

‘No, no, you’re right, these nonsensical rules have all the marks of something they came up with themselves. You know, I’ve been having the loveliest talks with a young man by the name of Bentham. Some funny ideas, but he’s got his head on straight about all that. Reckons women ought to have a say in governance!’

‘It only took them how many thousand years!’

‘Oh, don’t say that - it’s better than nothing.’

Crowley snorted, ‘Not by much! Hang on…Bentham...isn’t he the one who’s been talking about pickling himself or something?’

Aziraphale winced, and coughed, ‘yes, well, he does have some unusual ideas as well. Nobody’s perfect. It’ll never catch on though, can you imagine - as if they’d let a mummy sit in on meetings, or greet guests!’

‘Hmmmm,’ said Crowley, who had just enough imagination to picture it, and found the whole thing terribly amusing, ‘yes, I remember - he wrote some devilishly infernal thing about prison design, I wish I’d thought of it myself - perhaps I will have, come my next progress report!’

‘Oh...yes...that…’ Aziraphale looked increasingly shifty, ‘Infernal, you think?’

‘I mean, minimum effort, maximum obedience, with a side dish of constant anxiety, what could be better?’

Aziraphale sighed, ‘Oh good, I’m so relieved! See, I may have...well, we got to talking about work, and I may have got carried away. Nothing specific, mind, I just mentioned something about what it’s like when you feel like your, well, tradesmaster is always watching over you.’

‘Indeed?’ prodded Crowley.

‘And I may have mentioned something about eyes. So...very many eyes. The Cherubim especially…’ he shuddered.

Crowley nodded sympathetically, ‘and this Bentham chap came up with an idea where you feel like you’re being watched all the time.’

Aziraphale nodded, ‘you don’t think it sounds like me then?’

‘Naaah, pure coincidence. Besides, I’ll put in a bad word for it down below. Say it was my idea.’

‘It’s meant to instill order and - and reform violent criminals to better lives!’

‘Yeah, but I'm sure it can be twisted to infernal purposes, think of the potential!’ said Crowley, imagining just how much frustration-based evil he could stoke.[3]

‘Crowley!’

‘Don’t worry about it angel. Let’s go back to the reason I’ve got a copy of the _Mysteries of Udolfo_ wedged halfway up my cloaca because your trunk is full of poke bonnets.’

‘Oh yes, well, not full - I’ve got a selection of daywear, and eveningwear. I asked a very nice tailor, who was exceedingly helpful, and sent his regards to my poorly wife.’

‘Her initials A.Z. Fell as well?’ said Crowley. Aziraphale looked sheepish.

‘You know, I have to say,’ he said, settling his finely groomed hands across his belly, ‘I rather enjoyed the process. Menswear seems to be going downhill all of a sudden. No more patterns, no more lace, so much less fun! I think I might rather enjoy being Miss Fell for a time - have you seen the ribbons?’

Neither of them mentioned that Aziraphale’s recent celebration of silk and lace had nearly seen him beheaded due to an ill-timed luncheon in revolutionary France, and Aziraphale nattered on happily about ribbons, lace, and something called a pelerine until they reached the inn just outside their destination, where Aziraphale had planned to stay the evening.

( _The elegant and practical poke bonnet_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1]Image of Dick Turpin from [here](http://www.gutenberg.org/files/53112/53112-h/53112-h.htm#DICK_TURPIN)  
> [2] I may have discovered [Grose's Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/5402/5402.txt) (1811) and gone a bit crazy. All the regency rude words. And then some.  
> [3] He was thrilled to meet Foucault decades later. Then bored out of his wits. Then even more thrilled to invent the selfie.


	3. The Lady Casts Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets undressed. Then dressed. Crowley helps.
> 
> Featuring: stays, stockings, the world's slowest strip tease (or is it?), Crowley's shoes (at least, they look like shoes), trolly lolly.  
> Not featuring: a frightened owl

Once he’d fussed about the carriage, fussed about procuring a small room, was enraptured by the house mead, and fussed about the small room once they arrived there, Aziraphale set to the task of devising Miss Fell.

Returning from a post-supper stalk about the surrounds, Crowley discovered Aziraphale up to his elbows in a trunk, and wrestling with...something.

‘Crowley, I know you said it’s not about flexibility, but I simply cannot imagine how one is meant to fasten this obviously infernal device!’ He turned about, and Crowley discerned that the item he was currently tangled in was a fashionable short corset.

‘Well, you don’t wear it over your frock coat, for a start,’ said Crowley, who had briefly debated weather wearing a dandyish corset would give off the right impression of low grade evil, before deciding it would probably be superfluous. He just gave off the appearance of it instead, if the need arose. Unsurprisingly, Aziraphale lived in a world innocent of such things as stays, not to mention thigh padding, or maccaroni.

Aziraphale dithered. ‘I don’t see why you don’t miracle the whole thing together,’ suggested Crowley, ‘waste of time, dressing, and you need servants, and we know they aren’t worth the trouble - they notice when you don’t age.’

‘Or when you don’t sleep,’ added Aziraphale, mournfully, ‘Anyway, I can’t miracle myself into something if I don’t know where it’s supposed to go.’

‘See, and that’s where you need more salacious books in your collections, ideally, illustrated. You’d never have been in this situation if you had more Rowlandson prints on hand.’

‘Oh, he draws some with stays on?’ said Aziraphale coyly, ‘will you be a good chap and help me out? You can mock my collection all you like later.’

‘Yes, yes, fine, get your…’ he waved his hand, ‘extra bits off’.

Aziraphale was all bluster and pink cheeks for the next quarter hour as he divested himself of far too many buttons and as many turns of the fine cravat, plus one brief mention of trolly lolly[1], in what was taking on the appearance of the world’s slowest strip-tease. Each step was performed with admirable theatricality, usually accompanied by an impressively coy stage whisper of ‘what, this too?’ and a cow eyed blink in Crowley’s direction.

Crowley, who considered himself impervious to celestial charms was, unfortunately, entirely and hopelessly pervious to Aziraphale, and was having an increasingly difficult job not letting on. This, he thought, this was his punishment for accepting that blasted coach ride.

As Aziraphale bent to straighten up his delicately woven stockings, Crowley cursed the invention of buckskin breeches, and started to wonder exactly how wrong he’d been both about the Rowlandson prints, and about which of them performed temptations for a living.

‘There we are!’ exclaimed the angel, springing up, at last, with nothing but his drawers, stockings, and a newly acquired transparent chemise.

‘Ngk,’ said Crowley.

He pulled himself together, and stalked over to Aziraphale, eyeing the stays as he might a small, but explosive, minor demon. ‘Well, your arms go here, that much is obvious. Have I mentioned I usually just…’ he snapped his fingers, ‘my outfits on?’

‘Oh yes, but you’re very clever at it,’ said Aziraphale, sticking his arms through the holes, and wiggling happily. Crowley reflected that the angel must be in dire straits if he was resorting to flattery. Not that he was complaining.

‘All that leaves is…’ Crowley stalked round to the back, where he met a lot of tangled string, and a lot of holes. He picked up the string. At once, it found itself handily threaded through all the holes.

‘Whoops,’ said Crowley, ‘slipped.’ Aziraphale huffed, as though he’d been looking forward to the whole ordeal.

‘Fine, we’ll do the rest the hard way,’ Crowley grabbed the extruding strings and pulled.

‘Oh my!’ giggled Aziraphale, falling backwards, into him ‘what a curious device!’

Crowley internally begged the all-evil for strength, and tried again, propping a foot against Aziraphale’s robust backside to prevent him from falling backwards. Whether he was wearing shoes, or just wore feet that currently looked like shoes was a secret known only to him and the Infernal. 

_(The infernal wardrobes of dandies and dandizettes)_

An hour later, they’d managed to get the angel wedged into something more or less woman-shaped, with only a small amount of hellish intervention.

‘I’m not sure how I feel about structured underthings,’ Aziraphale said, prodding his own chest, ‘but I do rather like this lace! I do miss my old cravats…’ 

Crowley, who was completely done for, muttered something about ‘trolly lolly’ and shook out several pinched fingers.

The angel looked in the mirror, and did a pleased little turn, ‘Oh capital! Just splendid! And now for the hair - oo, I know just the thing!’ A blink later, and he was topped with something rather tall, cumulonimbine, and unfortunately, powdered. It was all rather fetching, if you lived thirty years ago. Crowley told him as much, and he looked put out. ‘Even the rouge?’

‘Yes, angel, even the rouge. No mobile moles, no wing-shaped patches, and no,’ he sneezed, ‘lavender tinted hair powder, no matter how celestial it used to look.’

‘Oh,’ pouted Aziraphale.

‘Look,’ Crowley’s fingers twitched, ‘Maybe I ought to... I’ve got loads of practice - got to keep on your hair game when you’re in the temptation business…’ he knew he was absolutely pushing it. For 6,000ish years, he’d had to watch the angel’s bright, owlishly fluffy curls spring like possessed downfeathers in and out of his life, without ever being able to indulge in his definitely infernal urges to...pull them...or...sink his fingers into them ...in an masterfully evil way, of course.

Aziraphale eyed Crowley’s hair (a dashing ‘coiffure a la frightened owl’) with a sigh, ‘you always do look terribly modern.’ (Aziraphale’s standard hair tended between the coiffure a la Cherubin and coiffure a la Slightly Alarmed Owl by default, not design).[2]

‘Yeah, well,’ he muttered, ‘how about I steer you away from the ghost of Marie Antoinette, satan rest her soul, and you can ruin it with your divine instincts from there.’

Aziraphale eyed him, in a way that was probably meant to be prim ‘Alright. But if you try any of your..demonic tricks...I won’t stand by it!’ he closed his eyes, and sat up straight, as if waiting for his barber. Crowley rolled his eyes, and snapped his fingers.

Gone was the small continent of wig, and in its place was a more natural assortment of curls, in Aziraphale’s (super)naturally occurring electrum shade, interspersed with a pale blue ribbon. He took the opportunity to stalk around it a bit, giving it a tweak here, a prod there, a little pat, juuuust sinking his fingers in...before reigning himself in, and stepping back.

Aziraphale opened his eyes, ‘Oh!’ he smiled, ‘you know, it takes me straight back to Athens!’

‘Yes, that’s the point. It’s all become fashionable again...that’s what they think they’re doing with the dresses too.’

‘Oh I would love for the togas to come back in! They were so … so…’

‘Fiddly? Hard to run in? Twisty to wile in? Six yards of trip hazard?’ Some things came easier when your hips weren’t originally serpentine, and held together by pure imagination.

‘I was going to say elegant - you wore yours splendidly!’

Crowley didn’t have the heart to tell him he didn’t think they’d be coming back in fashion any time soon, especially if he had anything to do with it.

Aziraphale tweaked the hair ribbon, ‘Oh it’s just wonderful! You’re absolutely wond-’

‘Ack! No- don’t say it! Don’t you dare!’

‘Well. Tremendously wiley of you then. I doubt my own management would recognise me! Fabulous. Now, how do I get out of this and into my nightie?’

Crowely collapsed face first on the bed.

(coiffure a la frightened owl)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Trolly lolly - outdated lace. Or is it? [Grose's Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/5402/5402.txt) (1811)
> 
> [2] Most of my knowledge of regency hair from [here](https://janeaustensworld.wordpress.com/tag/regency-hairstyle/)
> 
> Just to erase all doubts - unless otherwise noted the historical illustrations aren't mine. They're for fun(?)


	4. Two Ladies Cross Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter coach stage left. Miss Fell is in for a surprise. And a name change. Why can't things go to plan?
> 
> Featuring: Miss F, Miss C, Mrs E, Mr E, Miss E, Miss E, Miss C, Miss C, Mr C, Mrs C(RIP)  
> Possibly also featuring: Miss Takes
> 
> Any resemblance to real individuals is absolutely deliberate unless it's you reading this, in which case it's completely coincidental.

It was a dark, stormy afternoon, but that apparently hadn’t registered to the gleaming white coach of Mr A. Z. Fell, as most knew him by. 

Peering from the cottage window, Mrs Easton was struck by the delightful presence of the approaching coach’s exterior - it had all the jolliness of a whipped syllabub, which could only suggest a certain pleasantness of the lady within. Mr Easton remarked that he hoped the deference to appearance wouldn’t suggest a certain silliness of the party within. The misses Anne and Charlotte Easton suggested that it exuded something of Cinderella, and a ghost coach from the visigoths, which told you more about their respective reading material than anything. 

None of them guessed that the placidity of the carriage’s exterior currently contained a heated battle between the powers of good and evil, in person.

‘You didn’t tell me _you_ were coming!’ exclaimed a Miss Eliza Fell, nearly in vapours.

‘Didn’t need to, thought it went without saying,’ replied Miss Antonia Crowley, lounging casually in the face of her companion’s temper, ‘you were the one who extended the invitation.’

‘Me!? I never! My dear girl, I meant I’d drop you at the Inn, not that you could shadow my every move, surely it’s not convenient! What about your...wiling?’

‘Oh it’s perfectly convenient. I need to be in Hampshire, you need to be in Hampshire. Besides, I want to see this thwarting you’ve been assigned. Call me curious.’

‘Crowley!’ Miss Fell gasped, as though scandalised, ‘I won’t abide by being watched, as though I’m some form of entertainment!’

‘Oh Angel,’ pouted Miss Crowley, ‘don’t be like that. You know I take...great interest… in seeing you work. Besides, it’ll be dreadfully dull up here otherwise.’

‘Well, what shall I tell my - our - hosts?’ exclaimed Miss Fell, as the coach came to a stop.

‘I’m sure you’ll think of something,’ grinned Miss Crowley, and pushed her companion out the door.

‘Oh, Good day!’ Mrs. Easton hurried at once from the cottage entry, followed closely by Miss Easton and Miss Charlotte Easton ‘it is so good to meet you at last! Mr Fell spoke so fondly of his dear niece’s coming!’ Mr Fell had been tremendously vague about everything else, including his niece's name, anything about her, and date of arrival, but that could be overlooked for an old friend. How old the Eastons couldn’t recall, but they did know that they’d been terribly delighted to receive Mr Fell’s very kind letter, and equally delighted to meet his esteemed relation.

‘Er, yes, Mrs Easton,’ smiled Aziraphale, feeling flustered already, ‘It was really too kind of you.’

‘Oh goodness me, there are two of you-’ Mrs Easton began, as a tall, striking figure slipped out of the coach behind Miss Fell.

‘Oh, oh dear, I’m afraid this is my compan-’

‘Sister’

‘Miss Antonia Crow-’

‘-Fell’

Mrs Easton paused for a moment, wishing Mr Easton had been a bit quicker out the door. There was a ring of potential misstep in the air that couldn’t be held with. Happily, having two daughters herself, she was no stranger to the queer games and disagreements that two ladies could get up to when confined to a carriage, so she resolved to take it with good grace.

‘Ah the sisters Crowfell - we’re delighted! You are...?’

‘Miss Antonia,’ burst in Crowley, ‘and my sister is Angelina’.

Aziraphale coughed. He had planned to go with Eliza, which, he understood, was much more common, though he’d come across a few Angelinas, and one Miss Angel Phillips, whose parents owned his favourite patisserie. Too late now, anyway.

‘Delighted!’ exclaimed Mrs Easton, and the newly minted Misses Crowfell curtsied. Mrs Easton had the strange impression that, while Miss Antonia had a practised elegance to her bow, Miss Angelina’s was brought about by someone treading forcefully on the side of her redingote. It was a silly notion, so she cast it from her mind.

‘Well, I am Mrs Easton, as you know, and these are my two daughters, Miss Anne and Miss Charlotte Easton, who were told to wait in the drawing room, and this is - oh Mr Easton, come along then!’

Mr Easton emerged with all the reluctance of a man who viewed marriage as the happy relinquishing of all social matters to his wife, and graced the arrivals with a bow. Mr Easton was under the solid impression that Mr Fell was a distant relative of his wife, while Mrs Easton was fairly certain he was a former acquaintance of her husband. Happily, their strict division of social duties meant they would never have the opportunity to compare notes.

‘Now,’ spoke Mrs Easton, as she ushered them in, ‘as you know, this is only the summer cottage, so it isn’t as grand as you might be used to. We’ve had the room set up for you upstairs, and there should be plenty of space in the wardrobe for the two of you. I’ll have our man bring in your things-’

From behind, there was a squeak, and a clunk, as their man grappled with what appeared to be a trunk of lady’s dresses but was in fact a trunk that bent the boundaries of space and time to contain half of Aziraphale’s essential reading material. Plus the dresses.

Riding coats and bonnets were shed, and the group convened to the drawing room where Miss Angelina Crowfell found herself hard pressed to refuse several biscuits, a cake, and some slices of candied pear. Miss Antonia Crowfell found herself wishing she were able to retire somewhere where banyans and brandy were acceptable. Mrs Easton delighted her guests with her detailed knowledge of the local history, with particular attention paid to the way in which roofing quality had taken a turn for the worse in recent years, the unthinkable dormers that that ‘some people’ thought improved the facade of Bramley Cottage, and the somewhat questionable additions of pansies and topiary, of all things, to the Elkins’ front garden, which quite ruined it, in her opinion, but who was she to say.

Miss Angelina remarked with great warmth on the cakes, while Miss Antonia hung onto every one of Mrs Easton’s remarks, inserting such delights as, ‘dormers, you don’t say!’, and ‘Not pansies!’, which was very gratifying to Mrs Easton, though she rather feared she might even run out of interesting local customs to share, which had never happened before. The merry party was only broken up when Miss Charlotte’s book slipped from her grasp, and dropped to the floor, waking Mr Easton, and alerting Miss Angelina from a doze she most certainly hadn’t fallen into, thank you very much.

‘Dear me, is that the time!’ said Mrs Easton, ‘I suppose you might both be wanting a rest after your journey!’

...

_ (two random ladies and a feather by R Ramsay)_

‘Sisters?!’ whispered Aziraphale, once the door shut behind them, ‘Why on earth did you tell them we were sisters? I’m not even supposed to know you!’

‘Oh, don’t worry about it, Angel,’ said Crowley, shucking his gloves, ‘you can’t tell me you think they’re watching you after your last great commendation.’

Aziraphale looked upward nervously, ‘well, one can never be sure.’

‘And either way, at worst, they’ll be expecting some heightened thwarting action, since you’ve been kept in this earthly domain to keep your clever adversary at bay. They can’t complain, you’re keeping a close tail on me!’

‘A bit too close,’ muttered Aziraphale, eyeing the bed, and distinctively uncomfortable looking writing chair, ‘and besides - who will believe we’re related, we look nothing alike!’

‘Of course we do!’ exclaimed Crowley, spinning Aziraphale around to face the side table, where two miniature portraits had suddenly found themselves. ‘You take after Father, while I’m a spitting image of dear mother, Satan rest her soul.’

‘I-’ Aziraphale spluttered, ‘I hope you put those back where you found them when we’re done!’ Both were portraits of them, from about 20 years earlier. Up until now, Aziraphale’s likeness had had a comfortable residency on one of his bookshelves. Crowley’s was painted during a very brief stint amongst the ladies in a french court, which had involved a tremendously fetching pink powdered wig and a robe à l’anglaise, patterned with apple boughs and serpents. It had been presented as a curiosity to Aziraphale at some point after, and also normally resided in the bookshop, though, for propriety’s sake, in a discrete drawer, so Aziraphale felt ever so slightly flustered to find it exposed here.

‘I noticed what you did down there, by the way,’ said Aziraphale primly, beginning to unpack an improbable selection of books.

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ replied Crowley, who was emphatically NOT thinking of dormers. 

‘It was rather cruel to Mrs Easton, when she’s been so welcoming.’

‘Cruel!’ Crowley protested, ‘she loved it! I’m sure it’s the first time someone’s paid such devout attention to her delightful observations.’

‘Oh, you weren’t paying attention, you were just...stirring...foment… or whatever it is you call it. I could feel the level of frustration building, you wiley thing.’

Crowley snickered, ‘maybe I was just being polite.’

‘Well, whatever your nefarious purposes were, it didn’t work. I may have encouraged a few to-’

‘Dream of whatever they liked best? Yes, yes I could smell that,’ Crowley wrinkled his nose, as though the petrichor of miracle bothered him, ‘Not terribly polite though, was it.’

‘I- oh dear,’ Aziraphale paused to worry a lace pelerine, ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Oh well, better luck next time. I really must find a way to speak with Miss Charlotte and Anne, otherwise this will be rather wasted. I was meant to bless a wedding, but it appears I’ve arrived too soon.’

‘I’m sure you’ll find a way,’ said Crowley.

_ 'Mother' and 'Father' - an uncanny resemblance! (Acrylic on paper, painted by me) (see chapter 20 for higher res) _

Unfortunately, the way quickly presented itself over the evening meal, in the form of a dance.

Despite cross purposes, both Miss Angelina, and Miss Antonia recoiled in horror. As they were, respectively, respectable and disreputable supernatural beings, they both avoided dancing on heads of pins, needles, or, in Crowley’s case, anything other than excessively ill-lit gatherings, when at all possible, as neither could dance in a way that was convincingly human.

‘Oh, dear, I’m not really sure,’ said Miss Angelina, who had by now given the impression of being a charming, but rather sheltered young lady.

‘Nrk,’ added Miss Antonia, who gave the impression of an exotic mystery, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in a muslin frock. What was the reason for her delicate amber-lensed eyeglasses? Tragic past illness? Affliction by headaches? Hidden scars from a daring fight in which she bravely defended herself and her sister’s honour from a band of highwaymen? The jury was out. Miss Charlotte was hoping for the highwaymen.

‘Oh don’t tell me you aren’t out in society - you must be!’ exclaimed Miss Charlotte

Unfortunately, for work related reasons, both had to concede that, indeed, they must, because one had to meet one’s work targets somehow.

They then spent the greater part of the evening devising a pact to avoid dancing at all costs. Aziraphale was at the point of proposing a rather elaborate ankle injury when Crowley decided he had had enough of this and was going to sleep.

No sooner had the words been spoken than Crowley was burrowed under a pile of coverlets, hair obligingly putting itself in curling papers.

‘What are you- Crowley?’

‘G’night Angel, I’m done for, see you in the morning...if I can be bothered.’

‘Crowley? Crowley’ Aziraphale hissed, ‘I need your help!’

‘Yeah, yeah, ankle injury, dashing rescuer, honestly, I say we lurk in the corner by the negus, and look unmarriageable, ‘night,’ the pile of demon muttered sleepily.

‘Not that! This… I’m not sitting up all night in... _sculpted underclothes_.’

Crowley’s head popped out of the covers, ‘Just miracle it off. ‘Swhat I do.’

‘Yes, well, they aren’t watching your lot so closely,’ Aziraphale pouted, and plopped down on the edge of the bed, ‘please?’

Crowley rolled his eyes, ‘seriously? I come here for wiling, and end up playing your lady’s maid?’

‘Hmph, you’re the one who assured me it was necessary.’

‘Yeah, well, the tailoring doesn’t fit without it. Ok, fine,’ Crowley sat up, earning a squeak from Aziraphale.

‘Crowley! You’re indecent!’

‘Aw, thanks angel, I try.’

‘No, I mean, you’re not wearing anything!’

‘Why would I be wearing anything! I’m sleeping - these nightgowns are horrible, they just get tangled. Besides, it’s not like you haven’t seen it before. There were the roman baths! The turkish baths! Those deeecadent baths in Nuremberg before the plagues shut them down! Here, raise your arms!’

Aziraphale did, and Crowley undid the laces before pulling the whole ensemble off. 

‘Thank you,’ said Aziraphale contritely, before padding over to the trunk and putting on a nightdress that was nearly identical to the chemise he’d just had on. He picked up a book, and settled himself in the chair by the writing desk. The chair gave a slight crunch. Oh dear.

‘Well it’s certainly not my bookshop but it’ll have to do. I don’t suppose...’ Aziraphale looked up.

The demon was aggressively asleep, sprawled, motionless across the bed, eyes closed, mouth open, and slightly forked tongue lolling just a bit. True to his demonic nature, he’d managed to take up most of the bed in an impressive feat of corporeal engineering.

‘I say, Crowley?’ tried Aziraphale. There was nothing for it. He tried to settle back and opened the book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't originally plan to have them pose as sisters - it's a terrible idea! Then I realised it was such a terrible idea that of course that's what they'd end up doing.
> 
> I am very tempted to paint the two aforementioned miniature portraits. All I need is time. And the world's smallest paintbrush. Coming soon...


	5. A Strange Vexation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Misses Easton and Crowfell take a walk. Something is afoot, but not in a wriggling at your feetish sort of way.
> 
> Featuring: The Misses Easton & Crowfell, and Crowley's smallclothes.

The next day Aziraphale took up in earnest his efforts to find out what precisely had gone wrong with the supposedly impending marriage of Easton’s eldest daughter. The Easton sisters suggested to the Crowfell sisters a walk around the surrounding countryside, and Aziraphale leapt at the opportunity. 

Securing Miss Anne’s arm, Miss Angelina shortly became privy to the knowledge that she was indifferent to the keyboard, had middling talent in drawing, took no delight in general romance, but had much to say about Donne and Wordsworth. Miss Angelina also found out quite swiftly that Miss Anne was not engaged, or indeed expecting engagement at any point in the near future, contrary to what his work assignment suggested. She said nothing about any potential paramours, and neither sighed frequently, nor gazed distractedly to the horizon in a way that might suggest their existence. Instead, she determinedly engaged Miss Angelina on her thoughts on the weather. 

(Aziraphale, who had only recently taken up the delight of book selling, and organised book hoarding, felt a true dread, as he foresaw being deprived of his dear bookshop and collections for months - nay, years! - before he even had a union to bless. He caught himself guiltily trying to calculate the maximum number of years he’d be stuck here before she aged past a culturally acceptable point, or, sadly, died. Humans were so ephemeral.)

Crowley had greater success, for absolute want of trying. While Aziraphale and Anne had trundled along in the front, Miss Antonia had taken a meandering pace with Miss Charlotte, who was the more effusive of the two. Miss Antonia learned all about the frustrations of being a younger sister, of Charlotte’s distaste of anything to do with social minutiae, and of her adoration of novels of all sorts. Miss Antonia also learned, to her amusement, that Miss Anne had no foreseen marriage prospects, primarily because she lacked the optimism to see them.

‘Imagine my vexation!’ exclaimed Charlotte, and Antonia could, easily, ‘for years, it seems, she’s known Mr D, so I get a good earful of it in the evenings. I know as much about him as she does, just from being there - not that I mind, of course. But for all that private admiration, and shared congresses and walks, and shared opinions, nothing more comes of it! I worked so hard, I will admit to you, on my sister, so that she might find herself in the same room as him, and truly, in early days, encouraged her to find that bravery in her heart to speak to him at all. Not that she’s timid, mind, just that they’re both terribly taken with propriety, so she had quite convinced herself that talking to him would be the most improper thing, simply because it was the thing she most longed to do! But she was convinced over that barrier, and once they’d finally finished understanding each other’s views of the weather - about two years in - then they were able to move on to items which might suggest a mutual agreement.’

‘So you have great hope for her?’

‘I have none at all! Miss Antonia, I tell you this only so you might understand the severity of the trials I am faced with - I have been asked to go with my Aunt to London, in but a few days’ time. Naturally, Anne was asked along with me, but she turned down the chance to keep company with our parents! It seemed clear enough to me that it was not of our dear mother or father that she thought, but she will not admit, even to me, that her hopes turn to another! As ever, she insists that Mr D holds her only as an indifferent acquaintance, and she has even failed to make any definite schemes to call on him while I’m away. And it’s not for want of schemes, I’m a great schemer! I’ve proposed four schemes, and she’s rejected them all.’

‘I’m sure you are,’ said Miss Antonia, ‘I shall be sorry to see you go so soon.’ She then implored Miss Charlotte to tell her of the schemes, because one never knew when one might need a spare scheme up the sleeve for work-related crises.

Crowley then faced the terrible choice between telling Aziraphale, and claiming gloating rights, or not telling Aziraphale, and watching him fumble his way to eventually finding out for himself. Both options promised to be entertaining. 

Aziraphale, meanwhile, began frantically researching modern courtship rituals to see if there was something he’d missed, so upon retiring, Crowley found him nostril-deep in Cleland’s _Dictionary of Love_.[1] He didn’t look up, and failed even to notice when Crowley capered across the room in nothing but his smallclothes and a glass of negus, at which point the demon considered the evening a loss to the powers of boredom, and went to sleep.

Three quarters' hour later, Aziraphale looked up. 

‘That’s...odd,’ he sniffed the air, detecting not, as some would suspect, the hint of brimstone indicating the presence of evil (Crowley had a fastidious perfumery routine, and would never!), but something else. Aziraphale’s angelic senses were acutely (but, alas, not very precisely) tuned to their location. There had been a general background noise of love and affection throughout the day, a clear mark, he assumed, of the sisters’ regard for each other, but now he was finally able to put his finger on the addition.

Tension. Thick, concentrated tension hung about the house. The kind of tension that was built diligently by hours and hours of minor conversations on all the things that weren’t important, without ever unleashing the things that were. The kind of tension that was a crème brûlée so brûléed that it was all sugar crust, and you’d need an ice-pick to crack through.

Funny.

The sisters seemed content, and caring. The parents seemed indifferent, but settled, in their own ways.

The servants, for what he could sense of them, seemed to just be getting on with life.

Aziraphale shifted on the hard chair, and picked up the book again, ‘Goodness, when did Crowley get here?’ he thought to himself, with a rueful glance at the mattress, before settling against the wooden arm-rest. If only he were back in his book shop, with his favourite reading chair, then he was certain he’d have found a solution already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Cleland's [Dictionary of Love](http://dol.cath.vt.edu/dictionary.php#H) is a humorous and mostly cynical translation. Cleland is also responsible for _Fanny Hill_ (1748) which is entirely as rude as its name suggests. Whether Aziraphale is aware of this is left up to the reader's discretion


	6. The Lover's Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A note from Crowley, a not-so-secret locket, good gossip, bad business, and strange bedfellows
> 
> Featuring also: a riddle, but where?

Crowley was gone by the time Aziraphale again re-emerged from his reading, and Aziraphale was surprised to see he’d left a note -

* * *

_Out for work, told the E’s I’m on a visit to a squigglesquiggle. What fools these mortals be!_

_~Csquiggle_

* * *

Aziraphale put the note in his book as a placeholder, and made his way downstairs. The sisters Eastman had proposed a walk into town to buy final additions to Charlotte’s London attire, and Miss Angelina was swiftly swept with them. She was secretly delighted to once more be able to explore ribbons, lace and the more delightfully floral fabrics without the shocking comments that such interests cause to fall upon a gentleman - how dreadfully quick human conventions change! But lace had been a standby of men’s clothing for centuries, and Aziraphale held a certain hope that it would be back in short order, rather than the dull black frock coats and trousers gentlemen were turning to in droves.

‘Oh look, I do like that!’ exclaimed Miss Charlotte, pointing to a trinket at the small jewellers, ‘quite a scandalising mystery!’

‘I don’t think it’s so scandalous - but it does seem rather to be asking for people to nose into your private affairs. One could certainly use it to create an impression of a much more exciting life than one has!’ suggested her sister.

‘What is it?’ Aziraphale inquired, trying to peer between them.

‘It’s a lover’s eye pendant,’ said Miss Anne ‘They paint a likeness of your lover’s eye, so you may keep a reminder of their affectionate gaze close to your heart.’

‘But without revealing their identity!’ added Charlotte, ‘A tremendous way to appear mysterious! But we needn’t tell Angelina that, Anne, for she has one herself!’

‘I have no such - oh you mean this?’ Aziraphale tittered nervously at the brooch he wore at the waist, by his watch ‘I’ve not heard them called that before!’

‘What are they called in London then?’ inquired Charlotte, leaning closer, ‘Oh, may we see? I didn’t know you had a sweetheart - you must tell us everything!’

‘I- Oh go on then-’ said Aziraphale, as though Charlotte hadn’t already snatched the thing from its clasp. From his reading, Aziraphale knew that the trading of secrets was meant to help forge friendships, and was probably the best way to find out why Anne’s engagement wasn’t to celestial schedule. Unfortunately he didn’t actually have any secrets, as such, and certainly not any that ought to be heard by mortal ears - heaven knew telling them he was a messenger from the Almighty who had a slightly guilty penchant for bonbons and a glass of wine with his hereditary enemy would do no one any good!

Charlotte cooed with delight, and opened the wing-shaped cover of the miniature, ‘How very handsome. Has he hazel eyes? They’re very pale - look Anne.’

‘Yes, hazel,’ squeaked Aziraphale, ‘the pigment may have faded… I’ve had it...ever so long.’

Aziraphale had in fact not had it all that long. Crowley had a habit of bringing round small gifts and curiosities he thought Aziraphale might find amusing, or, tasty, or both. This he’d brought round to the newly minted bookshop not long after its opening.

‘What have you there?,’ Aziraphale had enquired, halfway through his third re-arrangement of the book ordering system.

‘Oh, though you might want to branch out from silver snuff-boxes. It’s a funny one! People wear them, it’s all the crack lately’

Aziraphale took it from him. It was a small oval brooch, whose outer limit was framed by a double-headed serpent, whose mouths met at the top to hold a round ball. The central round of the brooch was concealed by two gilded wings. Crowley had always taken amusement in human objects that unwittingly alluded to one, or both of their origins, so it was no mystery why he’d snapped this up.

‘It gets better,’ he said, ‘so, you know how they wear the little portraits of family and friends and whatnot - here you get a portrait, not of a person, but just their eye! Weird, right? Here, press the button at the top.’

Aziraphale depressed the little sphere between the snake’s mouths and the wings sprung apart to reveal the miniature painting inside. It quite recognisably depicted Crowley’s left eye, with its distinctive serpentine topaz iris.

‘Voila!’ said Crowley, ‘Artist doesn’t even remember doing it, as usual. Whaddya think?’

‘Oh bravo!’ exclaimed Aziraphale, ‘very clever, very fashionable! I’ll wear it just here, shall I?’ He pinned it to his watch fob, ‘To remind me to stay ever vigilant! Not that I forget, of course! But, you know… evil is-er-always watching! Ha-ha!’ he patted the pendant, beaming.

‘Yup, always watching and bringing you stupid trinkets so you stay in fashion,’ 

‘Well, as...equal trade, you ought to have one too then!’ Aziraphale realised, ‘keep the balance. Evil is always watching, and good is ever vigilant. Ever ready to thwart you!’ he added, prodding Crowley’s cravat with his quill feather.

‘Uhhhhh, I dunno,’ drawled Crowley, hanging from the counter at a particularly devilish angle.

Aziraphale lit up, ‘You could have a whole bracelet of them - eyes I mean, to get the full effect.’

‘I thought you didn’t go in for that ocular cherubim look.’

‘I know I’m a principality now, my dear fellow, but I _used_ to guard the gate!’

‘As if I could forget... you only had two eyes then too if I remember correctly.’

‘Two that _you_ noticed. OR-’ continued Aziraphale, inspired, ‘you could have one of those brooches with the little stones that spell things. Acrostic! That’s the thing. Let’s see, it could say “Get thee behind me, foul-’”

‘Sounds like it’ll need to be a girdle, if it’s going to say all that! Come on angel, forget about the trinket, there’s a vinter’s opened off the strand, I don’t suppose you’d want to…’

Aziraphale had been delighted, a few weeks later, to present Crowley with a small pendant whose multitone jewels spelled out ‘O! How evil!’ (onyx, hyacinth, onyx, white opal, you get the idea...) which Aziraphale found tremendously funny. He was surprised that the jeweller raised no eyebrows at all about his chosen phrase, even though most people spelled out a lady’s name, or ‘beloved’, or some other endearment, but he thought best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

Crowley reacted, as he always did, with utter nonchalance, and immediately added it to his watch fob, feeling instantly more evil for it.

( _This ring spells 'Dearest' or 'Seed Rat', depending on how you read it_ )

Back in the present, Aziraphale tuned in to hear Charlotte asking ‘Who is he then? Is he very dashing?’

‘I- well- yes- I- very dashing indeed,’ said Aziraphale, who was a terrible liar, a shocking actor, and whose fledgling imagination was still mostly in pinfeathers. He reached out desperately for the first thing he knew - books, ‘He rather puts me in mind of a- a- a- brigand! At times,’ he thought of Crowley sliding muddily off the roof of his carriage. Perhaps not. ‘But the good kind, not the stabbing and shooting kind. The kind that would only ask ladies for a - a kiss!’ yes, he’d read about that, except… ‘not that he’s _actually_ a brigand, or would kiss many ladies, or indeed any! I should say. Oh dear…’ Aziraphale turned rather pink.

He had been so excited at a bit of undercover work, really trying his hand at acting human for a bit, full immersion! This was much more difficult than he thought. He steadfastly resolved never to do it again.*

* * *

*Unfortunately following the episodes narrated here, he swiftly forgot his reasons for resolve, and would in fact go on to do it again, and again, and again, as a member of a discreet gentleman’s club, as a blitz double agent, as an ambassador’s gardener... 

* * *

Happily, Aziraphale’s embarrassment was much more effective than his acting. 

‘Oh, I can tell how very fond you must be of him! Look how she blushes Anne!’

‘Charlotte! I must apologise for my sister, Miss Angelina, she is always too bold, and would see a daring romance in everything. I’ve suffered a lifetime under her thoughtless prying.’

‘Oh hush! Anne speaks in fondness. She would be nowhere without my boldness! She brings me gravity and I push her forward, isn’t that right!’ exclaimed Charlotte, taking her sister’s arm

‘Yes,’ conceded Anne, ‘ but perhaps you shouldn’t go pushing dear Miss Angelina all at once!’

‘I am sorry!’ laughed Charlotte to Aziraphale, ‘Anne is surely right - I just get so bored in the country sometimes! I love to read an adventure, but a real one is much more exciting! I’m sorry to have pushed you.’

‘Oh, no, not at all my dear,’ said Aziraphale, ‘I must confess I love an adventure too! The imagination is so fascinating!’ he nearly diverted on a book-shaped tangent, but remembered that he had a job to do, ‘but what of you, and Miss Anne, surely you have your own excitement?’

‘Plenty,’ said Anne, ‘in the ways of walks, and rambles, and books. Fewer in the way of brigands, though I’m not sorry for that.’

‘Maybe not brigands,’ said Charlotte, ‘But we have parsons…’

‘Oh?’ said Aziraphale.

‘My dear sister, I have told you not to tease me on this!’ exclaimed Anne, ‘she speaks only of our friend Mr Dawlings, who we have known of old. He has recently taken up the ministry here, so we have had more occasion to see him. You shall meet him at the ball. He is most agreeable to everyone.’

‘Oh yes most agreeable,’ giggled Charlotte, nudging her sister, ‘Anne certainly thinks so,’ she whispered to Aziraphale.

‘Yes, and Anne also thinks that while romantic elopement may make for a splendid novel,’ said Anne, ‘marrying a parson to the disapproval of our family would be an imprudent choice indeed, and confusing a friendship with romance a downright silly one,’ she turned to Aziraphale, ‘While our father likes Mr Dawlings, he has been quite clear that he is below our status, and I’m afraid he is right. Mr Dawlings is a respected friend to us, but no more.’

‘Ooo, you’re no fun at all!’ said Charlotte, ‘Come on Angelina, let’s see about some roses for our shoes - I need some fresh ones to match my London dresses, and you must need some for the ball!’

Aziraphale’s heart sank. He’d forgotten about that.

Crowley returned the next day, as Charlotte prepared her trunks for her journey. Aziraphale tried to surmise where he’d been, who he’d been, what he’d been up to, and how it had gone by his posture alone. By the time he found himself trying to critically analyse the angle of Crowley’s little finger amid tea-drinking, he gave it up for lost.

Crowley, or Miss Antonia, as it were, appeared engaged in a battle of wits with Charlotte, in which each were trying to extract information from the other, but neither succeeding. Crowley was trying to find out what Aziraphale had achieved in his absence, while Charlotte was trying to extract Miss Angelina’s tragical romantic past. Both of them strove to achieve this without mentioning Miss Angelina’s name, so it was a fascinating, but ultimately doomed venture. 

Crowley turned in early, leading Aziraphale to surmise that business at Northfield Grange had not gone to plan, if that’s indeed where Crowley had been. He read for a while with the others, and did his best to give Charlotte vague recommendations for her London visit.

As it had before, the feeling of unease, indeed not-right-ness settled upon him when he took to his reading, and he wondered again at its source. He could only guess that something had upset the divine balance, the course of nature, and this had resulted in the generalised tension that seemed to cloak the household. Thanks to his work assignment, he had a better idea of what, and was certain the discord centred around Anne and, it would seem, Mr Dawlings. He hoped they found a way to end their mutual unhappiness soon, he thought, as he made his way upstairs. Above, the chandelier shivered slightly with the disquiet energy. It was clear the situation was nearing a metaphysical breaking point, even if the participants seemed oblivious. 

When he entered the bedroom, all was dark, save for the candle Aziraphale had brought up. Crowley appeared to be asleep. Even here, the air had a tingle of unsettledness, which shimmered at the edge of his vision. Aziraphale eyed the Cleland volume on the writing desk, and the narrow wooden chair which awaited him. A muscle twinged irritably in his upper back, where his wings would be if he were in a different plane of reality.

‘In for a long night, Angel?’ said a muffled voice.

‘Crowley! You’re awake!’ he spun around.

‘Pillows were being insubordinately lumpy today. You need to be unrigged?’

Aziraphale tutted at the rude turn of phrase, but plopped on the edge of the bed nonetheless ‘if you would.’ 

‘How was..business?’ he enquired, as Crowley unlaced him. He congratulated himself on doing a marvellous job of not tutting about Crowley’s continued eschewal of nightclothes. 

‘The less said the better,’ said Crowley ruefully, ‘No sign of this Archer fellow, but I found out what the Antigua business is.’

‘And?’

‘The business is _people_ ,’ they both grimaced.

‘Purely from a business perspective - I don’t agree, of course but - might that not bring more souls to your side?’

‘No, that’s the worst of it, or I assume half the reason I was sent out - too high a level of misery, it's pushing them over to your side instead. Going in droves, for all the good it’s doing them. The only souls we get are their evil taskmasters’

‘In that case, I can see why it would be - ahem - advantageous - for you to shift their efforts elsewhere.’

Crowley shuddered, ‘you got that right. Can’t wait for this one to be over. Not my style. How’s yours’?’ he pulled the corset over Aziraphale’s head.

‘Quite the same, regrettably. No progress,’ said Aziraphale, stretching, 'oo, that's much better!'

Crowley congratulated himself on doing an equally admirable job of saying nothing while Aziraphale puttered about in nothing but pink limbs and smallclothes, undergoing the trying ordeal of choosing between several nearly identical nighties.

To Aziraphale, the blasted chair seemed to hover at the edge of his every move, it’s knobbly carvings and crusty leather seat, watching, waiting. Having selected the evening’s nightgown (white with pale blue fastening ribbon), and dressing gown (eggshell, patterned with grey feathers) he resignedly picked up his book. On approach, the chair seemed to have grown even lumpier since he last looked at it. He glanced back mournfully at the mattress.

It was a question Crowley could hear without even opening his eyes. ‘Oh come on then,’ he said,’it’s plenty wide. I promise I won’t kick. Too much.’

‘I don’t know…’ said Aziraphale, fussing with his nightgown.

‘You can wake me before they send the girl up, so I can conjure a nightie, how’s that sound. Just _don’t_ drip wax on me while you’re reading.’

Aziraphale huffed, but gingerly climbed atop the bed. After a second, he blew out the bedside candle, and it was replaced by a dull glow that exuded from somewhere around his face.

‘You- seriously, Angel? This is how you’ve been reading at night?’

‘I wouldn’t want to waste their candles. It would be rude.’

‘You’re…unbelievable!’ Crowley gave up, ‘get under the covers, I won’t have you giving me sad eyes all day because of your cold feet.’

Aziraphale did. Crowley turned over, and was shortly surprised to find himself dreaming about whatever he liked best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -More on acrostic jewellery from the fabulous [Jane Austen Centre](https://www.janeausten.co.uk/create-regency-style-acrostic-jewelry/)  
> -As it turns out, many collectors of snuff boxes in fact collected what might be termed [Not Snuff For Work](https://regencyredingote.wordpress.com/2014/02/14/risqu-trinkets-erotic-snuff-boxes/) versions. Who knows what kind Aziraphale collects?  
> -If you're wondering why 'unrigged' is a bit rude, I'm afraid it's another one for [Grose's Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/5402/5402.txt)


	7. The Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dance is upon our brave duo. Unfortunately the dancing ability is not.
> 
> Enter the obscure references stage left.  
> Side eyes given to: Milton, Hieronymous Bosch, Pieter Breugel, Sprenger & Kramer, the Devil's red bottomosity, Mr Darcy, a guinea pig

The foretold dance came all too quickly, and certainly much faster than either Aziraphale or Crowley could get their heads round what precisely a reel entailed, and how to make one’s feet imitate it. Thus, Aziraphale was disappointed to find himself lurking by the negus and soup, just as Crowley had foretold, rather than assessing what particular role Miss Anne Easton could have in furthering the Divine Plan. Crowley was also lurking, but was much more at ease with it, though perhaps that was because he’d changed his negus to something rather stronger and alarmingly more blood-coloured early on.

Aziraphale looked at his companion’s drink, with the kind of disapproval that was in fact poorly concealed envy, unaware that Crowley had even more recently turned the entire punch bowl into something much stronger, and Aziraphale was therefore several more sheets to the wind than he anticipated.

‘It’s a problem of opportunity,’ he’d been saying, to his companion ‘one can’t exactly, well-’ he gestured with a delicately gloved hand, ‘dance _rigadoon_ to music of the heavenly spheres.’

Crowley sniggered.

‘The beat only comes once every millennium and a half, for starters. And then there’s the company - all those seraphs - you know, they can’t even see their feet!’ continued Aziraphale.

‘Not a problem down our way’ said Crowley, gazing demurely into the crowd, ‘some of ours are nothing but feet - that Vassago - got 30 of ‘em. Though can’t say you’d see a minuet down in the seventh circle much either.’

‘Ohhh of course,’ said Aziraphale knowingly, ‘the _balum rancum_!’

Crowley looked at him, ‘what? No, that’s not - I mean, sure, Hastur’s got a lot to improve on in the hygiene department, but I keep mine clean, thank you very much, and anyway, what’s that got do do with-’

‘No, no, no, you know, the _balum rancum_ [1] ,’ he waggled his eyebrows suggestively, ‘I’ve read all about it! Well maybe not _all_ ...but you know. Know thy enemy!’

‘Eurgh,’ Crowley groaned, ‘is that another one of those _Malleus Maleficarum_ type things? Lots of women? Sudden, unexplained lack of clothing? Something about the devil’s arsehole?’

Aziraphale turned very red indeed, and muttered something about the ‘profane kiss’ and ‘how was he to know’ into his punch.

‘Look, Angel, how many times I gotta tell you not to pay attention to those? I mean, look at what Milton said about your lot! You don’t see me assuming his feathery fantasies came verbatim from the celestial mouthpiece.’

‘N-no. Quite, quite,’ Aziraphale opened his mouth again, then thought the better of it. Milton had gone through a brief stint of home-brew alchemy which had resulted in a tremendously strong _acquavit de something_ , and a very chatty angel who was delighted to discuss all sorts of ecclesiastical hypotheticals. When _Paradiſe Loﬅ_ came into print, he’d worried slightly that he’d said too much, but in his defence, he hadn’t seen Crowley for a good while, and as a result, had been feeling rather lonely, and maudlin, and he’d resolved from that point on never to drink more than was polite dining tipple except in safe company of other non-humans, namely, Crowley.

‘I mean, if anything,’ Crowley went on, ‘hellish dancing is a bit more like - d’you ever meet Hieronymous Bosch? Good time, that man, or Pieter Bruegel?’

‘Ohhhh. Oh yes. Oh dear,’ said Aziraphale, who hadn’t met Bosch, but had thought Pieter was a jolly sensible sort, and his wife made a lovely honey loaf.

‘Oh dear is right,’ said Crowley, wondering whatever happened to old Fishbeak Bob, who he’d rather lost track of after the great post-plague rave of 1363, ‘you better hope we don’t have to worry about-’

‘ _You’ve_ been dancing with the only handsome girl in the room!’ the Misses Crowfell found their conversation interrupted by a rich, bored voice from just the other side of a plant arrangement. 

‘Wh-who? Oh. Oh you mean Miss Easton?’ replied another man, who sounded, in Crowley’s opinion, either thick, or a bad combination of good-natured, and shortsighted, ‘but come now. Look, there are their guests, just there,’ definitely thick, ‘who I dare say are very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.’

‘Which do you mean,’ said the first voice, and he craned his head inelegantly around the plant, ‘oh,’ Miss Angelina was doing a horrible impression of someone who couldn’t hear the conversation right next to her, while Miss Antonia stared threateningly through her amber-lensed spectacles, ‘They are tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt _me._ ’

Miss Antonia smiled in a way that would have appeared demure, if you weren’t close enough to notice the fangs, and turned to Miss Angelina.

‘Does he want to bet?’ Crowley hissed, ‘it’s not all about looksss.’

‘Yes, yes, my dear, I’m sure it isn’t, but you needn’t go all-’

‘Oh Miss Antonia, there you are!’ interrupted the cheerful call of Anne Easton. Anne swept over, bringing the two gentlemen in her wake. ‘I do hope you’re enjoying the evening? May I present, Mr Dawlings, who has recently taken up the parsonage, and his friend Mr Archer. Our guests, Miss Antonia and Angelina Crowfell!’

Everybody bowed, curtsied, or, in Aziraphale’s case, did a bit of both, and hoped nobody noticed.

‘Mr Archer?’, said Crowley with interest, and Aziraphale’s stomach dropped quite a lot lower than his curtsy, ‘I trust you’re enjoying the evening? I dare say I’ve rarely seen so many well turned out guests.’

‘I’ll admit, I’ve grown too accustomed to the crowds of London,’ said Mr Archer, ‘but I’m eager to have my mind changed.’

‘That’s very propitious of you,’ said Crowley with only the most delicate growl in the back of his teeth, ‘but do tell me, are you well travelled? I often long for the tropics, I do so hate the damp…’

Before Aziraphale could say anything, Crowley had slithered off, leaving Aziraphale with an earnestly quiet looking Mr Dawlings.

‘Oh good, I was so worried that you hadn’t been dancing yet,’ said Miss Anne, ‘I do hope you and Miss Antonia are enjoying yourselves?’

‘Yes, capital!’ said Aziraphale, ‘I’m afraid neither Antonia or I are particularly...talented… at dancing,’ glancing over Anne’s shoulder, Aziraphale thought he saw the top of Crowley’s hairpiece weaving gracefully amongst the dancers, ‘runs in the family..’ he finished, weakly.

‘Oh never! I’m sure not!’ exclaimed Anne, turning to Mr Dawlings, ‘Miss Angelina is ever so gracious about her talents, but I am determined they ought to have a good time!’

‘Quite- quite…’ said Mr Dawlings, whose appearance and hairstyle put Aziraphale rather in mind of a guinea pig, ‘‘if you’re not engaged, Miss Angelina, would you do me the honour…’

Aziraphale looked between his eager face, and Miss Anne’s. Oh well. All creatures great and small and all that.

‘Tell me, Mr Dawlings, do you like to read?’ Miss Angelina said, wearily.

( _Good old_ _Fishbeak Bob_ )

Miss Angelina and Miss Antonia Crowfell made a striking impression. Miss Angelina was not a woman one would call handsome in the fashionable sense. She had a rather stouter neck than could truly be called artistic, but she had a pronounced warmth of character, and a certain effusive joy that made her agreeable to all. Her presence, with palest blue gown and matching ribbon in her fair ringlets was like a breath of fresh sunlight in the candlelit room. Miss Antonia, on the other hand, was immediately recognised as everything an elegant woman ought to be, except, perhaps, well fed. Tall, with classical aquiline features, she wore an exotic gown of black gauze over red satin. The Grecian spirals of her copper hair evoked classical statuary with such authenticity, that many remarked it was as though she had walked among the ancients herself, and the serpentine bandeau woven through seemed almost alive, with its gleaming lacquer scales. At least, they might have been lacquer. Her delicate amber spectacles added an agreeable element of pathos - and all resolved that the tragic remnant of a childhood fever only gave her greater fascination.* She turned about the room in a fashion that was nearly liquid. Her sister, bless her, turned about the room in a manner that tended more towards the gaseous. Exuberant. Expansive. Sometimes bouncing off things, usually, other dancers. 

* * *

*except for those who resolved that the tragic remnant of a youthful encounter with a telescope at high noon gave her a greater fascination

* * *

‘Oh dear - pardon - oh dear me!’ Miss Angelina found herself face to face with her alleged sister in the middle of a reel.

‘Angel, what the devil are you doing here?’ hissed Miss Antonia, spinning with an aggression that suggested she wasn’t in full control of her actions.

‘I haven’t the foggiest my dear!’ said Miss Angelina.

‘You’re meant to be dancing the woman’s part!’

‘Is this not? Could be the pudding’s part for all I know - heellllp,’ and she was swept off to tread upon another unfortunate.

...

By the end of Miss Antonia’s first dance, half the men were tripping over themselves, and by the end of her second, half the women were green with non-descript envy. Or perhaps it was motion sickness. By the time she rejoined her sister, there was a trail of gossip and minor discord bubbling about the room.

‘Oh you don’t say!’ Miss Angelina was saying, in a pained manner, as her partner tried to ease her again towards the dance floor, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve read _Mysteries of Udolfo_?’

‘Angel! Angelina - dear sister!’ Crowley burst in, grabbing Aziraphale’s hands.

‘My dear! A turn in about the room?’ said Aziraphale, a little desperately.

‘If you please, I’m done in. I do apologise...Mr...Dawlings.’

‘Oh no no no!’ Said Mr Dawlings, feeling suddenly compelled to make haste to the dance floor.

‘Never again!’ grimaced Crowley, swiping two cups of negus as they moved towards the outer edges of the crowd.

‘You cheated!’ hissed Aziraphale.

‘Yes, and I’ll have you know, I’m paying for that! You try miracling away your feet for three dances - I’m exhausted!’

‘Is that what you did?’

‘Sort of, just retracted them a bit. No need for steps, they just push you around, like curling.’

‘Anne did mention you danced as though you didn’t touch the floor...’

‘Because I didn’t. Never mind Mr Wallins nearly spun me into a pillar at one point, it’s no easy business! And a waste of energy - I couldn’t even turn wine into stronger wine if I wanted to. Next time - well, there isn’t going to be a next time. There’s no way I’m getting near enough to any dancers to be dragged into this capering chaos again!’

‘Hmmph, serves you right for sowing discord! As I always say, evil sows the seeds of its own destruction-’

‘I wasn’t! No more than normal anyway. What do you think people come to these balls for if not a bit of spiteful gossip to liven up their lives? That Archer’s a right knob by the way - I’ll show him how “tolerable”, I am,’ Crowley seethed dangerously in Archer’s general direction.

‘There’s no need for that, dear,’ said Aziraphale, lying a placating hand on Crowley’s elbow, ‘Your look very well indeed, I’m sure you’re perfectly tempting.’

‘Hrrrng,’ said Crowley, who wouldn’t abide with being patronised, but might abide a bit if it included Aziraphale saying things like that, ‘how was that Dawlings, anyway, he looked quite taken with you.’

‘The less said the better, I was desperate to keep off the dance floor!’

‘Well, it looks like he’s telling everyone how well-read and charming you are.’ Crowley nodded over to where Dawlings danced, speaking enthusiastically.

‘What? No- I - he’s meant to be enraptured with Miss Anne! This is completely counterproductive!’

‘Oh what now, Angel, are we finding human affairs a bit more complex than Udolfo gave on?’

‘Oh, hush, as if you know any better!’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1]balum rancum (n.) - "A hop or dance, where the women are all prostitutes. N. B. The company dance in their birthday suits". Yet another from the vulgar dictionary. Like you, Crowley has never heard of this in his life, and rather mishears it in the first instance.
> 
> In other obscure news, Vassago doesn't have 30 feet, he's 30 feet long.
> 
> I'll leave the rest of the jokes for you to discover (unless I get a really desperate plea for more footnotes, in which case, the footnotes and I are here to serve).
> 
> More on regency dances [here](https://janeaustensworld.wordpress.com/2013/05/17/pride-and-prejudice-having-a-ball-at-chawton-house/)


	8. Cross Over One Couple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is vexed, Crowley has a strange dream.

The problem, Aziraphale mused, was that Mr Dawlings was as impulsive as he was bold, which is to say, not at all. It was obvious he liked Anne well enough, and the affection seemed to be mutual, but it would take a miracle, and a very specific, well-timed one at that, to get either of them to admit it. And that wasn’t Aziraphale’s assignment. He was meant to be blessing the wedding - not forcing it to take place! Besides, he found it was best not to meddle with those sorts of things, as it usually led to disaster - all the wrong things being said at all the wrong times, or worse. He’d enjoyed Romeo & Juliet, when he’d first seen it in 1596, but he’d identified far too closely with Friar Lawrence, and resolved never to make the same mistakes. Even so, what was the point of endowing humanity with love and all its associated glories, if you also instilled them with just enough free will to do the exact opposite of what would result in their happiness?

Driven by his sense of charitable good will, and urge to welcome new parishioners, Mr Dawlings had frittered away hours of the evening chatting gamely to Miss Angelina, determined to not appear rude, before being similarly captured by the Dowager Mrs Bately, and poor old Mrs Knocksworth, who was keen to encourage him to take part in the joys of youth while he still could, and continued to encourage him for another three quarters’ hour. All in all this meant that, despite Aziraphale’s brave effort to put Dawlings off forever by witnessing Miss Angelina dance, the man spent the least part of the dance with Miss Anne, despite their long-standing affection, and apparently, impending matrimony. Of which neither of them were yet aware.

Worst of all, Anne seemed to have taken silent sorrow from Dawlings’ inaction, but instead of admitting it, she took it upon herself to convince Miss Angelina of how very good-natured and well-informed Mr Dawlings could be, if only one got to know him. It was a good job Miss Angelina had a professional disinterest in mortal affairs, otherwise Miss Anne would have been in real danger of appearing indifferent herself, and doing so while actively destroying her own prospects of happiness.

‘He does seem a most admirable gentleman, in your words,’ said Miss Angelina, venturing out on a limb, ‘surely, to hear such words from a friend such as yourself would be of great benefit to one who wants for boldness of spirit! Cheer him right up!’

‘Oh no, Miss Angelina, I could say nothing of the sort. You see, Mr Dawlings views me as a respected friend, and a like mind, he has said as much. To speak to him as an admirer - he might misunderstand my intentions, and that would ruin everything, I am certain. He is of such a gentle nature, you see, that it is often mistaken, as he does not like to speak ill of another, or cast them off. If he thought I had also been so deluded, he should break his heart.’

Aziraphale did not know what to say to this, but he thought it tremendously vexing, and very silly indeed. He confided as much to Crowley in the evening.

‘Weeell, the way I see it, mis-perception is the root of all sorts of evil - one person wants to be seen one way, the other party wants to be seen the other, word gets out, and boom - friendships ruined, alliances melted, someone’s saying _et tu brute_ while the other one gets a bit stabby - it’s an old story, can you blame her?’

‘Yes but they both want the same thing! I don’t see why one of them can’t just _say something_! So all this dreadful tension can be done with! Maybe you can’t sense it, but I tell you, this entire household is bubbling with it! It’s so strong, I’m certain it’s making my hair curl! ... curl more, anyway, and in all the wrong directions!’

Crowley hesitated. Far be it from him to suggest Aziraphale may have been misusing the curling papers. ‘If she's that keen, then she probably figures what they have is...better than nothing.’

‘But even if she loses him to someone else? Or - what if he loses her?’

Crowley shrugged, ‘You’re the one who always bangs on about love taking many forms.’

‘Yes, which you normally point out amass to ...what was it…”badly concealed heartbreak”?’

‘Exactly, great for low-grade evil, self-inflicted misery, bad impulsive decisions. Some of the easiest temptations, desperate people. Barely need to hint at an idea, and they’ve run off to do something they’ll bitterly regret for the rest of eternity, in the hopes it’ll make them forget whatever they’re feeling.’

‘Must you always play devil’s advocate? Oh, I suppose you would.’

Crowley grinned.

‘Well, what do you think I ought to do? There must have been an error in celestial timings. I’ve come far too early!’

‘Pffff, you’re asking me?’

‘You’ve seen enough of them go wrong…’

‘Errrrk… I mean… if it were me… and I had a limited time in this mortal coil and all that, and my name were Anne Easton...oh I don’t know. I usually work with people’s _worst_ instincts. She’s scared, so scare her more into thinking he’ll leave her then… she might act. Or she’ll bottle it up and use it as fuel of a thousand minor acts of passive-aggressive, low grade evil. If I were doing this blessing, I’d just modify the punch into something a bit more rum shaped, make sure they ended up alone in a confined area, and hope that nature took its course.’

‘But if they were very, very strong willed. And had very strong, moral reasons to … to deny themselves? Reasons they’d learnt diligently since… well, birth?’

‘I er…’ Crowley considered whether they were still talking about the same people, ‘ well in that case, they’re probably fucked. Might take the end of the world, or the big You-Know herself.’

Aziraphale sat down on the bed, ‘Oh dear. I had so hoped this would be an easy one.’

‘Eh, don’t trouble yourself. Just do your worst, er, best, in your case.’

Aziraphale sat silently for a time. ‘Will you be sleeping tonight?’

Crowley stretched ‘yeah, I suppose. Nothing much else to do…’

‘I er thought I’d catch up on some travel reading - _A Year in Arcadia_. If you don’t mind, that is.’

Crowley shrugged, ‘suit yourself. Makes no difference to me,’ and disappeared under the bedding. His clothing disappeared under the pretence of comfort. Aziraphale managed to stifle a comment.

This time, Crowley did not, strictly, dream of whatever he liked best, but had a much stranger experience. He was half aware of the angel radiating a faint light to allow himself to read, but in his dream, it seemed to grow in magnitude, until he was engulfed in the sun-like, tingling warmth. He dreamt himself half snake, basking in the sun, writhing pleasantly as his belly absorbed the ever-growing radiation until-

‘Oh dear me, I must have dropped off!’

He woke to the sound of Aziraphale’s book tumbling from the bed. His eyes popped open to see the world in serpentine gold, until he remembered where, and what he was. The morning sun was streaming in, and he was uncomfortably sideways, spine contorted upwards, with the crown of his head braced against Aziraphale’s thigh. With a snap, he dropped to the mattress, and twisted away.

‘Do you always wriggle so much when you’re asleep?’ said Aziraphale, as though asking about the weather.

Crowley hissed drily, and tried to regain command of his spine. And tongue.

‘Only, you’ve been quite peaceful the other nights.’

‘Don’t know, can’t ssssee myssself, can I?’ said Crowley, at last, ‘jussst sssleep whichever direction sssuitsss-ssss- suits.’ He stretched, first his limbs, then his tongue, before retracting it to its more human shape.

Aziraphale watched.

‘Don’t normally dream, either...’ added Crowley. He then shrugged, and rose from the bed in a single motion. Aziraphale gave a little repressed yikes as the covers fell away.

‘Really?!’ Crowley turned towards Aziraphale and the yikes became decidedly more pronounced, ‘you’ve been spending too much time with the wrong sorts of humans,’ he said, but with a snap of the fingers, was robed in sable muslin, ‘Aziraphale?’ the angel had gone a bit glassy-eyed.

‘What? Oh! Oh, yes. I...I normally don’t sleep. How odd…’

‘Maybe I’m a good influence,’ said Crowley, eyeing his hair in the hand mirror. One raised eyebrow, and the stray strands sprang into position.

‘Oh, hahahah, my dear, I’m sure that’s not - eep!’ 

A knock on the door signalled the arrival of the maidservant.

‘And me, still abed!’ exclaimed Aziraphale, who rushed through the morning routine with twice as much stumbling as normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As it turns out, [A Year in Arcadia](https://books.google.co.uk/books/about/Year_in_Arcadia.html?id=7fofAQAAIAAJ&redir_esc=y) is not precisely travel reading...


	9. An Analysis of Country Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another dance threatens, but this time, Aziraphale has a cunning plan.

Unfortunately for the Misses Crowfell, they had arrived in Little Storking at exactly high dancing season, and the occasion of two new young women(ish-shaped beings) gave all the more reason for frequent entertainment. So they were very shortly threatened with further dancing.

‘I can’t believe it!’ wailed Aziraphale, in the privacy of their shared bedroom, ‘how can humans abide by so much dancing, surely their feet must need to recover?’

‘I am as amazed as you are,’ said Crowley grimly.

‘Right, this calls for drastic action,’ Aziraphale said, with a voice Crowley had learned to dread, ‘I’ll need your assistance, but I believe it will be for both of our benefit! Weapon the first!’

Crowley jumped back as, with a flourish, Aziraphale presented a book.

‘Weapon the second!’ declared Aziraphale, and whipped out two white fans. ‘First, we have Wilson’s _Analysis of Country Dancing_ \- I saw it in town, and I think this will be the answer to our pray-erm well. Troubles.’

‘What are the fans for then, when one of us overheats from the futility and goes into vapours?’

‘No, of course not - these are crib sheets - look’ he flipped one open, ‘the steps to the more complicated dances.’

Crowley’s face brightened, ‘cheating! Now _that_ I can get behind!’

Aziraphale spluttered, ‘it’s not _cheating_ , it’s just a bit of help. Besides, it wasn’t my idea - they sell them in the shops!’

‘Yeah, and it’s not cheating when you’ve got a 6,000 year old divine handicap.’*

* * *

*in the sporting sense

* * *

‘Oh, hush! Now, lets see if we can figure this out. You… you be the gentleman, and I’ll-’

‘Me! Oh no, I’m not dancing angel, I’m just here to watch!’

‘Crowley! Here,’ Aziraphale wedged his own morning hat over Crowley’s eyes.

‘Oy- I spent - precious - seconds on my hair, I’ll have you know!’

‘Right! Now which of us is the little red square…’ Aziraphale muttered, turning the book to the side, ‘so we just...or no…Right!’ He exclaimed, and thrust himself in front of Crowley. 

‘Fffiiine,’ with a resplendent show of apathy, Crowley rose from the chair. Aziraphale beamed.

‘Oh, goody! First we, “set”!’

‘Er…’

Aziraphale consulted the text, ‘Whatever is setting? Surely it doesn’t mean we sit down?’

‘Is it the thing where they do the little dance at each other? Across the row.’

‘Oooh. Yes, I was trying to find my place in the queue last time. And then… left, right, right, left… how… many legs does this gentleman -’ he looked at the book cover, ‘Mr Wilson - think we have?’

‘Let me see that!’ said Crowley, reaching for the book.

‘No, no! I’ll direct!’ said Aziraphale, ‘then you...oh yes, spin your partner… we’ve done this before!’ he grabbed Crowley’s hands. Crowley wondered whether now would be the time to revert his legs back into bifurcated snake tails. It was all the rage in 16th century discotecas. While so thinking, he forgot to look down.

‘Crowleeeeey!’ 

Thump.

From the floor, Crowley mused that perhaps spinning had not been the time to take his mind off Aziraphale’s feet. It was no secret that the heavenly host didn’t hold with dancing, but he was gaining a whole new understanding of why exactly that might be. Surely most normal people wouldn’t manage to get this tangled just from a simple turn.

‘I’m loath to admit it, but you were right,’ said Aziraphale, somewhere to the right of his elbow, ‘I don’t think I do want the toga to come back in after all.’

( _Tripping is imminent_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -More on cribsheets, and all things ball-related [here](https://janeaustensworld.wordpress.com/2013/05/17/pride-and-prejudice-having-a-ball-at-chawton-house/)  
> -You too may trip yourself trippingly with Wilson's [Analysis of Country Dancing](https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=hTQ-AAAAYAAJ&pg=PR1#v=onepage&q&f=false)


	10. Chase round two couple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The ladies and gentleman pass round each other’s situation_  
>  A walk and a picnic

The next day, Archer and Dawlings called on the household, and the four of them set off for a countryside walk. To Miss Angelina’s dismay, Dawlings politely offered to take her arm, and when she tried to demure, she discovered Archer had already taken up Miss Anne’s. She then suggested she might have a word with his sister, when Dawlings, even more politely, offered to accompany them both.

‘Tell me, Mr Dawlings,’ said Miss Angelina, in no way nervously trying to glance backwards at what had become of Miss Anne and Mr Archer, ‘How is it you and Mr Archer have come to be acquainted, for I have not yet learned it?’

‘Yes indeed, you have found us strange acquaintances? Many have said so, haha, but the answer is that we have known each other since youth. He is almost as a brother to me, though you'll find me quite guilty of having brothers too, all my elder. But he has none, nor much family left now, so it is well that he has found a brother in me, and Father of sorts in Mr Easton.’ 

‘Indeed?’ encouraged Crowley.

‘Yes, Mr Easton has a mind much of investments and enterprise, as does Archer. I think, if it is not too bold of me to observe, that Mr Easton may be as glad for my friend’s more adventurous notions as Archer is of his sobering ones. But I have little mind for such things, you’ll find, haha. Thus Archer is enterprising, and I am a parson, and he shall mock me for it.’ It could be observed that Mr Dawlings had a nervous laugh, which he employed liberally.

‘Mr Archer mentioned something of Antigua to me,’ said Crowley demurely.

‘Oh yes, he is often over there. I do not yet know if I approve - he tells me little of it, but what I know is that it is profitable to him. When we were younger, we were much alike, but he is a man of adventure now, Miss Antonia. I sometimes think he could do with settling, but then he would say the opposite of me, so there you are.’

‘Is he much changed since youth?’ inquired Aziraphale, ‘for I know so many that are so constant in nature, that I do often wonder at what makes a person shift, those influences which work for ahem good or ill?’

‘You ask difficult questions, Miss Crowfell! I am afraid you’ll find that I’m not much for philosophy, haha, despite my occupation. As for Archer, he faced much tragedy as a child, his parents both lost, and such things can affect men. But then, many men tend towards adventures in youth!’ he brightened up, ‘especially those with strong sensibility, and easily granted permission. But perhaps Miss Easton has spoken to you of him already - for she has many times suggested that I am too agreeable to everyone, especially my friends!’

Miss Angelina said she had not.

‘But tell me of you - what are your impressions of our fair countryside? You must tell me what brings you here?’ Archer said, trying to turn to speak to them both, and rather twisting his neck.

The alleged sisters spluttered, and spent the next half hour stumbling through a story that left Mr Dawlings rather confused, but none the wiser.

….

However, all was not lost. Over the course of the following days, Dawlings was a frequent presence, and Miss Angelina was able to turn conversation, at last, to her admiration of her dear friend, Miss Anne. Dawlings was even drawn to admit agreement which, considering the party, Angelina saw as a hopeful sign. 

‘I always say, there is no time like the present,’ said Miss Angelina to him, over a fortuitous picnic.

‘Do you really?’ interrupted Miss Antonia, reappearing from a more expansive stroll at just the wrong time, ‘I thought your motto was “haste makes waste” and “why do today what you can slowly consider for several decades?”’ she eased down to the picnic blanket and began poking through the fruit selection.

‘Oh,’ Angelina laughed, in what she hoped was a trilling way that suggested to Antonia alone that she kindly mind her own business, ‘how my sister loves to exaggerate! For certain things, of course one mustn’t be hasty, but for others-’

‘Ah yes, like permanent, legally binding contracts-’ said Antonia, popping a round, black grape into her mouth, ‘oo these really are sweet, you mussst try one, sister!’

‘I- for others, sometimes one must take a chance when divine- divine providence presents it to us, lest it be gone! Will you stop that!’

‘My, how large the bees are this year,’ said Antonia who had certainly not been pelting her sister with grapes.

‘You must agree Mr Dawlings, after seeing life for as much as we have, and looking upon the hardship in the world - I cannot help but think that life is so very much more fleeting than it can seem to a hu- individual, in the moment they live it. Very fleeting,’ she added, for the benefit of Antonia, who’s heretofore expansive existence was to be cut very short indeed if she didn’t lay off with the grapes.

‘One can see both sides,’ said Mr Dawlings, ‘it is certainly a matter for much consideration.’

Considering who she was dealing with, Angelina considered it a success.

…

‘The Misses Easton, we must hear your thoughts!’ exclaimed Mr Archer, some time later, from where he’d lain in conversation with Mr Dawlings and Anne. 

Aziraphale and Crowley had descended into discreetly arguing about the nature of the bumblebee. Aziraphale suggested that, being furred, they must be mammals. Crowley was insisting they danced, while Aziraphale suggested he was wrong, but that they apparently did something alarming involving birds.

‘And how do they even fly?’ said Crowley, ‘I mean look at those round bodies - it shouldn’t be possible!’

‘I take offence to that!’ spluttered Aziraphale, ‘I am certain they use their...their... aerodynamicals, that's it!’

‘I don’t think they’ve invented that yet,’ said Crowley, ‘nah, I reckon it’s supernatural. They could easily be a type of minor cherubim if you think about it - like sweets, always buzz in my ear, fuzzy sort of yellow, actually, are you sure you’re not-’

Both turned swiftly at Archer’s question. ‘What?’

‘I have argued,’ said Archer, ‘that we must take pleasure and advancement in life where the advantage presents us, but Mr Dawlings is convinced we must address every task with diligence and duty, until all the joy is sapped right out. One would almost think he disapproves of me!’ 

‘I never said!’ exclaimed Dawlings, who felt it was his duty never to be seen openly disapproving of anyone personally. 

‘On what specific topic should we apply this principle?’ asked Aziraphale.

‘Business, to be sure for Mr Archer thinks of nothing but!’ proclaimed Dawlings amicably.

‘Dawlings, you wound me! I think of many things beside business!’

‘Fine then, nothing but business, and a pretty face.’

‘I refuse to be hurt by this! You accuse me of nothing more than being young and alive! Surely, like any person in this age of vivacity, I may think to position myself to the best advantage, and enjoy my time with who suits me? Or is my friend now too humble and pious to aspire even to marry?’ 

Crowley muttered something darkly which Aziraphale didn’t catch, but it sounded like it ended with ‘Antigua.’

‘I aspire to it as much as any other,’ said Dawlings, frustratingly casting no longing glances to Anne, or anywhere else. Instead, he spoke as though he were addressing the weather. That was just the problem, though Aziraphale. He spoke on every topic as though it were the weather. Anne, on the other hand spoke of little _but_ the weather in polite company, so in that way, they were suited. 

‘But you put so much on pleasure and so little on duty, that I cannot agree with you,’ continued Dawlings, ‘For instance, I, in my duty, am called to view all with a Christian sense of charity. Yet there are those that deserve charity, and those that would take advantage! Those who have met difficulty because they break their promises, were disloyal, or deceive their masters. Those who would let others do the work while they receive the benefit. Surely you’d agree their advantage in this world has been unfairly bought, and no doubt would deserve retribution in the hereafter?’

‘And yet he will be pious!’ exclaimed Archer, turning to Anne with amusement, ‘see, even when he protests otherwise!’

‘Surely though,’ said Aziraphale to Dawlings, feeling distinctly uncomfortable for a reason he dare not name, ‘it would not do to be too hasty in our judgement. For who are we to know the full reason behind why a person acts? Surely, some might act in what they think is the best interest of all, though for one outside the circumstance, it could appear that they didn’t strictly follow the rules of their contract, or perhaps weren’t quite as truthful as they could have been when asked about it after, but that hardly constitutes-’

Crowley cleared his throat.

‘All I’m saying,’ resumed Aziraphale, ‘is that we had best leave those judgements to the Almighty, who in infinite wisdom and foresight, can see the whole picture! Yes! I rather think we might give people a chance for redemption, so they might prove, through good works and actions, that earlier transgressions ... if indeed we want to call them transgressions, but which I would say, perhaps, is a bit of an overstatement… that these were by no means representative of the individual, or their works, or goodness, overall!’

‘Surely, if this individual were so good, they couldn’t have done the wrong thing in the first place,’ said Crowley with strong sarcasm.

‘Precisely!’ said Aziraphale, missing it for the second time in his very long life.

‘And we come again to the point,’ exclaimed Mr Archer, ‘For I put it to you that Mr Dawlings is too focused on doing the good and right thing, and has forgotten how to have fun.’

‘You may find, haha,’ said Aziraphale, ‘that there cannot be too much of a good thing. Haha.’

‘There can if the Good Thing is imploring you to listen to this spleeeendid bit of verse one more time while you’re trying to nap,’ said Crowley.

‘Well perhaps one might consider taking their repose elsewhere, if it bothers one so much! And repose amongst the Bad Things!’

‘Perhaps the Good Things should consider less tempting arrangements of fires and cushions then.’

‘Perhaps the ideal nature of the arrangement suggests that there is always exactly the right amount of the good thing - otherwise it would no longer be the good thing, but another sort of thing. Face it my dear, you have never experienced too much of a good thing!’

‘Might have soon.’

‘Oh you would never.’

Crowley stuck out his tongue.

They looked up to find the rest of the party had left them behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I hope it is clear, but lest there be any question, Aziraphale is *not* defending Archer


	11. Reeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To dance! To dance! Aziraphale is determined to learn. Crowley is determined to not be trod upon. Their corporations are determined to do nothing of either sort.
> 
> Featuring: A boulanger, a category 5 eton mess, a debate around a bottom, Mr Easton's liquor collection

The second dance came ever closer, and the first failed attempt had only renewed Aziraphale’s determination to succeed. Thus Crowley’s evening slink up the stairs found Aziraphale standing to attention, book in hand.

‘Oh no Angel, not that, anything but that, I’m begging you!’

‘I thought we'd best practice the _boulanger_!’ said Aziraphale, ignoring him, ‘They say it’s advanced, but I’ve had a look, and I thought that if you can navigate the crowds in Covent Garden the way you do,’ he cast a not-very-furtive glance at Crowley's hips, ‘then this will be a piece of cake!’

‘What kind of cake is that?’

‘The foot pattern did put me in mind of a battenberg....’

As it turned out, they’d hit on the wrong dessert family altogether, and were in fact facing a Category 5 Eton Mess, but they were still blissfully unaware of this (though Crowley had his suspicions).

‘Now just let me find it…’ said Aziraphale, flipping through pages, ‘Hmm, no we’ve done that… er...the “top gentlemen” “sets between the second and third ladies” - my goodness! - we shan’t be doing whatever that is!’ he continued, sounding scandalized.

‘Hang on, are you sure this isn’t another one of those seemingly innocent books that turns out to be thinly veiled pornography, like the last ti-’

‘It most certainly is not!’ exclaimed Aziraphale, before wavering slightly. He read the page again, ‘No I don’t think so. This once certainly doesn’t have the concealed colour plate illustrations, and thank heavens!’

‘Though, if you squint’ said Crowley, peering over his shoulder, ‘that diagram could look a bit like a crude sketch of a -’

‘Yes, yes, that’s quite enough of that!’ He flicked through to a different page, ‘we’d best stick to the basics. Here!’ Aziraphale released the book, and it held itself open, hovering in mid-air. 

Crowley looked at the page heading, ‘“cast round bottom, and top” well that’ll have to be yours.’

‘Mine!?’ Aziraphale tried to look behind himself.

‘You’ve seen mine - I’m pretty sure they left something off when assigning corporations - ‘s nothing there!’

‘Don’t be silly, you’re corporation is perfectly-' he spluttered, 'corporeal! anyway, I don’t think it means the bottom must be ‘round’, it means you must cast A-round it!’

Crowley pictured himself prancing, highland style, in a circle round Aziraphale’s bottom. That couldn’t be right.

‘Hang on, what does this “casting” entail? 'Cos if I’m going to...cast…’ Crowley made a vague but expansive gesture with his arm over Aziraphale’s head, ‘ round your...bottom..and then...top it... Aziraphale are you _sure_ this isn’t one of those-’

‘I-let me see that!’ he squinted, ‘it’s _positions_ Crowley, top and bottom _positions_.’

‘I understand _that_! What I’m asking is what, precisely should I do… to your bottom?’

‘Would you leave my bottom out of this?’

‘It's not my idea!’ snapped Crowley ‘it’s what it says in the book! And I think you’ll find it hard to dance without your bottom, take it from me.’

‘I’ll find it hard to dance however I please, thank you very much!’ huffed Aziraphale, glaring. Crowley didn’t doubt it.

‘Fine, fine, we’re dancing, we’re dancing,’ Crowley relented.

‘Right, so the lady, that’s me, and gentleman, that’s you,-’

(‘Thought it was the other guy in the corner,’ muttered Crowley.)

‘Join right hands,’ he presented his delicately-lotioned hand, and Crowley took it.

( _The_ _Category 5 Eton Mess, yet to be invented_ )

‘Excellent, step one complete!’ said Aziraphale, regaining his enthusiasm, ‘now we step forward-oof!’ Crowley had gone for an apathetic shuffle, while Aziraphale had gone for a daring lunge that wouldn’t have gone amiss in a fencing duel. They bumped chests. Crowley noted to his woe that demons’ feet were clearly a place where angels did not, in fact, fear to tread.

‘Oh gosh,’ Aziraphale tittered, without stepping back ‘now we er,’ he turned his head to consult the floating book, and Crowley got a mouthful of his hair.

‘Ack!’

‘Pardon me!’ he turned back, nearly giving Crowley a mouthful of his own teeth as well, ‘if I just move this…’ with his left hand, he nudged the book through the air until it hovered over Crowley’s shoulder, ‘perfect!’ he enthused, just by Crowley’s ear.

Crowley tried to concentrate on his unnecessary breathing as the angel’s arm circled around him. This was exactly the kind of situation in which human bodies reportedly did all manner of unexpected and revealing things that could give, for instance, the false impression that you’d been harbouring a 6,000 year old crush on a colleague from an opposing organisation. He wasn’t entirely sure what the revealing things would be, but was hoping it didn’t involve slithering, or talons.

There were a good number of things in Crowley’s world that worked simply because he expected them to. Sleep, for instance, or his pocket-watch, which never needed to be wound simply because it had never occurred to him to have to wind it. Unfortunately the same was also partially true of his corporation. As such, Aziraphale found himself inexplicably blushing with the sudden consideration that this was rather closer than they normally found themselves, and wouldn’t it be awkward if it turned out that one of them was, say, harbouring a 6,000 year old crush on a random work rival. Happily, Aziraphale was also well practised in ignoring such thoughts when they came, so aggressively ignored it. 

‘We then “swing completely round each other”’ he enunciated primly to Crowley’s shoulder. The fashionably low neck on his evening dress allowed Crowley to observe that air, once circulated within an angel’s mouth, comes out very warm indeed.

With extreme caution, remembering the earlier trials, the pair shuffled around in a circle. This was significantly hampered by the fact that they were still standing far too closely, thanks to Aziraphale’s footwork, meaning they now had to shuffle while straddling the other person’s foot. Knees, feet, and -alas!- thighs connected several times. 

Three-hundred and sixty degrees later, and Crowley had gained horrifying insight into what specific embarrassing things bodies did in these situations. Turns out it did not involve slithering as such, but was just as bad.

‘And now!’ said Aziraphale, bolstered by their success, ‘we “swing right hands top and bottom, round and back again”!’

Crowley swung right. Aziraphale swung left, their arm joints reached their extremities, and they slammed into each other’s backs.

(Impending disaster)

‘That’s it!’ said Crowley, staring up from the floor for the second time in as many dance attempts. Turned out he was the top gentleman as things fell, judging by whichever part of Airaphale was jabbing him in the spine. ‘I know what we’ve been missing! It’s at every ball that’s ever been, and humanity clearly needs it to enable them to dance-’

‘My goodness, you’re right!’ said Aziraphale, ‘the wine! Of course we couldn’t get our limbs to work. My dear fellow, you’re a genius! How silly of me - I’ve never seen a person dance without several glasses in them, and here we were trying to caper about dry!’

Several items from the Easton’s stores were surprised to find themselves suddenly in the chamber of the purported Crowfell sisters.

Several glasses later and Aziraphale and Crowley were weaving back and forth in complex harmony that may have, at times, and completely by random chance, coincided with the foot-patterns in Wilson’s book. It couldn’t really be called dancing, and Crowley had long forgone any effort not to cheat, so was hovering in air like a rather sloshed banshee. Aziraphale continued to perform something more akin to fencing lunges, but, thanks to the wine, they were now rather more in a figure-eight pattern, bringing him ever so slightly closer to Wilson’s intent. Though really nowhere near it. It was a miracle that nobody heard them. 

Crowley eventually fell, cackling, across the bed, and Aziraphale spun over with wobbling grace* to drop heavily onto the floor beside him.

* * *

*the grace was part of his state of being - divine grace etc etc. There was nothing graceful about his movements.

* * *

‘You’re marvellous angel, you’ll blend right in, mark my words,’ slurred Crowley sleepily.

‘Oh, why thank you, couldn’t have done it without...you know,’ his leant his head back happily, and if it coincided with where Crowley’s arm extended off the bed, neither said anything. They had done it! He thought, succeeded at the impossible - succeeded at dancing! It really wasn’t hard at all! He closed his eyes.

(Note, dear reader, that they had not, in fact done it, but were experiencing that common symptom of high spirits and alcoholic spirits common to any place where fools and music are gathered - namely, the temporary inflation of one’s perceived dancing ability)

Soon, Aziraphale felt his mind being drawn into a strangely familiar dream - something with golden buzzing sunlight, and grass that seemed made of light and pleasure, and were those stars?

He snapped awake, sobering up instantly, and feeling distinctly like he had done something quite dangerous in dozing off. The dream seemed to tug at him, dragging him back like an unfinished thought. Crowley’s sleeping head hung over the edge of the bed next to him, and his toes twitched in the buzzing air.

The house was quiet in the pre-dawn grey but the air sizzled imperceptibly. It was getting worse. Aziraphale rose, and did not sleep again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boulanger was apparently one of Jane Austen's favourites, and reportedly based on a tale of bakery-related hanky panky. One can see why it appealed to Aziraphale.


	12. Contra dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Half figure on Your Own Side_  
>  The second dance has come at last, but where is Crowley?
> 
> Featuring: at least nine ladies dancing, two rakish rogues, no french buns, and - alas! - no pear trees either. At least not yet.

The following evening, Crowley disappeared.

It wasn’t until after he’d heard it from Anne, that Aziraphale found another note, this time sticking out of the Wilson volume:

* * *

‘ _Business calls. Be back when I can. Spoke with Mrs E. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do._

 _~Top Gentleman_ ’

* * *

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. Crowley was such an irksome creature. As long as he was back in time for the dance. Aziraphale wasn’t certain he could face it without at least someone who understood how very difficult it was.

But one day passed, and then another, without the return of Crowley, Dawlings, or any other. Aziraphale had to restrain himself from inquiring too closely into how long Crowley might be away, since, as Miss Antonia’s fictional sister, Miss Angelina really ought to know. The weather, getting into the spirit of things, took up a dreary, gusting mist, which conspired against walks, news, or the opening of windows. Aziraphale was first delighted by a letter from Charlotte, read by Anne, then slightly less delighted by Mrs Easton's recapitulation of said letter, which lasted the better portion of the afternoon. He was considerably less delighted, and found it difficult indeed, to analyse country dancing without a dance partner, and was even less delighted to discover that Hampshire beds can be really quite cold and damp when uninhabited by demons.

The day of the dance came, and Crowley still hadn’t returned. 

Unlike the previous occasion, this was a public dance assembly, hosted in the village hall, so could be expected to be less formal, but more crowded. Aziraphale hoped he might make the best of things and nudge Anne and Mr Dawlings together, then disappear into the throngs.

Miss Anne found it terribly endearing how obviously flustered Miss Angelina was without her sister. Anne understood, having a dear sister herself, and particularly understood since, like her Charlotte, Antonia appeared to be the bolder of the two, who Angelina obviously relied on. Anne resolved to take Angelina under her wing, and took up with happiness all the small tasks such as hair curling, and ribbon selection that she and Charlotte would do together were Charlotte not away. Angelina had been very pleased indeed with the end result, wearing her fine white gown, with a gold ribbon at the waist. To accompany it, she picked out a sheer shawl of celestial blue, and a coral necklace with beads in a delicate ‘angelskin’ pink that suited her complexion. Anne had styled Angelina’s hair to fall in curls about her face, and gathered the ringlets in the back to be bound with a circlet of gold ribbon. Anne, meanwhile wore a dress of India muslin, over a lemon-coloured petticoat, her dress and hair decorated with pale pink satin roses.

Aziraphale thought it was all terribly spiffing, and was rather put out that Crowley wasn’t there to appreciate their efforts.

By the time they departed for the village, it became quite clear that Crowley was a lost cause. Aziraphale felt unusually bereft, and found himself worrying where he might be, or whether he’d come to trouble. He also strongly considered the possibility that the demon had deliberately timed his work-related absence to avoid the dance. Under normal circumstances, he would have considered this both likely, and understandable, but now it troubled Aziraphale far more than it should have. In the most secret caverns of his heart he allowed himself to admit that he had tremendously enjoyed learning to dance with Crowley, and while he knew it was illogical, he took it quite personally that the demon had abandoned him tonight. He _had_ thought Crowley was enjoying himself too, what with the laughing, and the tumbling, and the tumbling asleep while laughing, and the lovely look of being half asleep and mere inches away while laughing, and he had been fool enough to even hope-  
No! He mustn’t think such things. Mustn’t even imagine thinking such things.

The main hall of the assembly was large, warm, and buzzing with chatter, beneath the dim light of many candles. Aziraphale was surprised to see quite so many people, and couldn’t fathom how they were all going to manage to dance. Or hear the person calling moves! Or remember any of the moves! He gripped his fan crib-sheet tightly. He also faced the real concern that he may not be able to find Mr Dawlings, if indeed he were there, much less contrive to leave him to Anne. For a man who stopped to greet every parishioner he met, this room alone presented a lifetime of work!

Turning to Anne, Aziraphale saw her craning her neck over the crowds, but she desisted as soon as she realised she’d been observed, confirming, to Aziraphale at least, that she too was hoping to espy Mr Dawlings.

‘Can we expect any friends here?’ inquired Aziraphale.

‘Yes, I hope so - I see the Miss Allans across the room but it’s such a crush, I might wait until one or the other of us find our way to each other. They stay across the grange. I am certain Charlotte’s good friend Lydia Spencer should be here, for she has told us she would, but I haven’t seen her yet. We would have also hoped to see Mr Archer and Mr Dawlings, but I understand Mr Archer has had to tend to some business at the estate, and Mr Dawlings has his duty to the parishioners, which often finds him detained, or prevented from attending.’

Aziraphale’s hopes crumbled slightly but he did not give up yet. After all, his own celestial presence had surely led to a greater general goodness in the area (never mind Crowley for now) so surely, Mr Dawlings would have seen a downswing in ministerial call-outs. Just to be sure, he concentrated fervently upon the thought. Throughout the room, the conversation grew a level, as everyone felt a sudden uplifting of mood, pervasive sense of well-being, and inexplicable longing for choux buns.

Aziraphale followed Anne with a renewed spring in his step - that should do it! Dawlings should be sure to appear, if he wasn’t there already. ‘You don’t suppose they have choux buns here? I’m feeling a bit peckish...’ he began.

Just then, they heard a familiar voice.

‘Miss Easton, Miss Crowfell! How delighted I am to find you here!’ turning, Aziraphale saw the rakish face of Mr Archer.

‘Oh Mr Archer, we were only just speaking of you!’ said Anne, as they both dropped in greeting, ‘Only, I was certain you wouldn’t be able to come. How pleased we are that you have.’

‘Not half as pleased as I am to see you both. I didn’t think I could make it myself, but things do have a way of resolving themselves when pleasant company awaits you.’

‘Are you with a party then?’ ventured Aziraphale, with growing unease. If Crowley was away on business, and Mr Archer was his business, what had become of Crowley?

‘Alas, if it’s Dawlings you’re asking after, I’m afraid he couldn’t be persuaded away, though he has promised to try. Between us, I have the feeling he’s made a timely visit to some poor dear so he might spend the evening in the small pleasures of his library! But perhaps I’m being unkind, for being cruelly made to come without my friend. What say you, Miss Easton, for you know him as well as I?’

‘I say you may be unkind in how you have said it, but not wholly untruthful.’

‘Unkind! There it is! I knew you should think so. But to you I would say that there cannot be unkindness in speaking the truth, and I believe I have. For our dear Mr Dawlings is scarce as a ghost when the viol draws nigh! One cannot say which he dreads more, the exuberance of dancing, or the mortifying ordeal of a sea of pretty faces!’

‘Mr Archer, I must protest!’ broke in Aziraphale, feeling rather cross.

‘Now Miss Crowfell, you mustn’t take offence from our jest! Mustn’t she, Miss Easton? For we’ve known Mr Dawlings enough so that he is as good as a brother! And one must tease one’s brother. Truly, Dawlings is the best of men, and I’m sorry indeed he isn’t here. And thus, as my sorry sorrow has affected me, and turned me into a churl, you can only forgive my hasty speech, for the fault is not mine! Are we again friends?’ he held out his hand, and Aziraphale reluctantly shook it.

‘And now Miss Easton, in truth, I too have only just come from speaking of you! But nevermind that now. It comes to me first to ask whether you have already secured a partner for the next dance.’  
Miss Easton had not, and said as much.

‘Then I would ask if I might have it, and also the second, for paying me the favour of seeing a friendly face. Then, I shall ask for a dance with Miss Crowfell, if she is not too cross with me,’ he turned in question to Aziraphale.

‘Well I wouldn’t want to, but of course I -. Yes, thank you.’ Said Aziraphale, kicking himself internally, and expecting to be shortly kicking all sorts of things externally as well.

‘You don’t mind, do you Angelina? I can stay and introduce you, if you like?’ said Anne.

‘No, no, I’m quite content to stay here and watch. I take just as much joy in… watching a dance as… participating, you know!’ Aziraphale tittered.

‘I say, you are so like Mr Dawlings!’ exclaimed Mr Archer, ‘Miss Easton, I tell you, you have an archer’s precision when picking your friends! How alike they are! And you shall be sure I’ll tell Dawlings of your bold defence of him when next I see him, Miss Crowfell!’

With that, Archer led Anne to where the dancers were queuing up in two jostling rows.

The music began, and Aziraphale tried to revise his strategy. If only Dawlings were here, the evening might have even served to make progress. Anne seemed in good spirits, and Aziraphale’s trials with dancing had convinced him that, indeed, the blasted activity could induce warmth and a stirring of feelings between people (nevermind that the warmth here was caused by leaping about in a room full of candle fumes, and the feeling stirred was in fact hypoxia -- Aziraphale was in no position to be picky).

( _one of these is not like the others_ )

Aziraphale quickly discovered that the atmosphere was not at all conducive to thinking, what with the noise, conversation, and burbling emotional undercurrents. He kept a watchful eye for the appearance of Mr Dawlings, and tried to keep an equally watchful eye on Mr Archer and Anne. He didn’t know exactly what Crowley’s business was with Archer - usually their Arrangement meant that they stayed out of each other’s hair as much as possible, which was easier if you didn’t know exactly what the other’s hair was. And it gave a person plausible deniability should they ever - God forbid - be questioned. He was quite certain Crowley’s assignment was investment based, but it wouldn’t hurt keeping an eye on things for good measure, just in case.

He had to make a hasty retreat when he espied Mrs Easton heading in his direction - one only had so many watchful eyes to go around! On the way into town he’d already been briefed on the behaviour of ‘some people’ at these types of affairs, and how you never used to have crushes of crowds like you do now, and back when Mr Gilbert was assembly master, now that’s what you might call a true assembly dance, for he really knew how to call the moves properly, and some people now just don’t give proper attention to whether their voices might be heard, but then people nowadays - we won’t say who - but some, like that Miss S and Miss E with their short gowns and pantalettes clearly have different priorities than what it used to be, and she’s no one to judge of course, she’s just saying….

He didn’t think he was in a state to graciously endure the updated version.

As he passed round the far corner of the room, he caught a wave of something familiar and looked swiftly about - amongst the hubbub, it seemed at first a hint of evil, which then coalesced quite clearly to be Crowley’s eau de Cologne. Looking about though, there was no copper-plaited demon in sight, either amongst the dancers, or, from what he could see, the spectators, and Crowley’s distinctive height and hair did make him easy to spot, if you were looking. Sniffing, Aziraphale realised it might easily have been from his own ribbon, or stays, all of which Crowley helped him fashion each day. Though known only to him, this slip made him feel suddenly, terribly exposed.

He continued his course around the edge of the room, and heard the music ebb. How many dances had passed?? He really ought to be studying the moves printed on his fan. As though in horrid answer to his question, Mr Archer suddenly came bounding from the crowd, looking pink-cheeked and invigorated.

‘Miss Crowfell! I hope you weren’t trying to escape! I believe you promised me this dance,’ with nary a soul to even shoot a desperate glance to, Aziraphale found himself being hurried to the dance floor, as ladies and gentleman faced each other in two long queues.

‘Tell me you won’t mind, but I always aim towards the end of the file - more time to talk, less being traded amongst strangers! Good lord, what a palaver!’ Mr Archer, it turns out, was not the only one with the same idea, and there was a great deal of jostling, switching, shouting and grabbing of hands, as couples tried for the best place. Already Aziraphale was lost, and had no idea how he could discreetly look at his fan now. Then the music started. The first couples in each group began to move down the line spinning, switching, jumping.

Aziraphale felt jostled to the left, as the queue moved down.

‘What’s this then?’ said Archer ‘That’s not right, you can’t just-’ more jostling, and the line shifted again, with several inebriated giggles, apologies and laughter as some late-coming merrymakers decided to join the dance. Aziraphale’s queue was now several places out of sync with their partners, but it was too late, for the dancing had reached them.

A pair of hands reached for Aziraphale’s - he grabbed them blindly, hoping against hope that some moves would come back to him. He was spun, and returned, something bumped hard into his shoulder, another pair of hands reached out. From the far end, the head couple shouted the next move, but it was impossible to hear. A gleeful cry went up. Aziraphale was spun again, and returned to place. Or a place. At least he was still in the ladies’ queue, unlike last time! Several lead couples went galloping down the line, hand and hand, and bounding back up again.

Aziraphale found himself face to face with a thin young man with straw coloured hair. He looked nervous. ‘Mr Brickham, at your service,’ he said, and commenced the galloping. Aziraphale became aware that, for his height, Mr Brickham had incredibly long feet. It was all Aziraphale could do to avoid treading on them, which, he hoped, looked vaguely like a gallop.

‘First time out?’ squeaked Brickham, more earnest naivety than decorum.

‘No, but it might as well be.’

‘I know the feeling,’ said Brickham, ‘Whoop!’ the move shifted again and Brickham passed Aziraphale on.  
Out again came a hand, dragging Aziraphale into a step forward, turn and switch of partners. New hands, turn and switch. New hands turn and -THUMP-

‘CROWLEY?!’

They both sprang back into the queue. Across from Aziraphale was the unmistakable presence of the demon, but dressed in a sharp black evening suit, with hair, a la Brutus, equally dark.  
A couple from the top of the queue galloped down between them, and back up, signalling that another move had begun. Gentlemen held out their hands, and the ladies stepped towards them.

‘Nice necklace,’ said Crowley, ‘Anne did a cracking job on your hair too.’

‘Is that a wig!?’ hissed Aziraphale, as he drew close.

‘What do you think?’ said Crowley, as they stepped back. Next proceed a turn. Oh dear. They joined hands. ‘Even these people might notice two characters with identical hair and shaded glasses turning up in one summer- ow!’

‘Sorry sorry- Are you-’ they respectively stepped and limped back into the queue.

They moved forward again, ‘are you even wearing shoes?’ finished Aziraphale, trying to better glimpse Crowley’s snakeskin...well they looked like shoes.

Crowley just hissed slightly at him. Oh dear, the galloping was starting again. From their place the top couple galloped down the queue and back up again like a loosed bowstring, followed by the next, and the next.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to practice your moves?’ ventured Aziraphale.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. He was not wearing his glasses, which might have been alarming, except for the candlelight, which cast everyone’s eyes into deep shadow, and rendered even his serpentine yellow pupils more hazel. He was wearing a spiffing evening suit though, thought Aziraphale, and the most unmentionable of unmentionables[1].

Crowley cleared his throat, and stepped forward. The galloping had reached them.

‘It’s been an honour,’ said Aziraphale, fighting the urge to close his eyes.

‘Oh shut it, angel-’ Crowley grasped Aziraphale’s hands firmly, and they were off. Up the queue they flew*, galloping, running, stumbling very quickly.

* * *

*not literally, though it would have helped.

* * *

‘No cheating!’ cried Aziraphale, ‘if you cheat, you had better take me with you!’

‘It’s too fast!’ said Crowley, ‘If you think - ha- I’d manage a cheat now - ha - you’ve vastly overestimated my skiiiills!’

Back down the queue they flew - leaping, bounding, knuckles gripping with supernatural strength.

‘Where’s our place!’ wailed Aziraphale, as faces blurred past. ‘We need to get out!’

Face set in grim concentration, Crowley galloped them straight out of the hall.

( _Tight trousers? What tight trousers? - Unmentionables_ )

‘That was splendid! Marvellous! Oh my dear boy!’ laughed Aziraphale, clearly, Crowley thought, in shock. Made sense - dancing went contrary to the angel’s every celestial instinct, and this had been not a trickle, but an onslaught.

Crowley meanwhile, was handling it with ultimate sprezzatura, impeccable calm, and natural ease, by clinging desperately to Aziraphale’s elbows and gulping for air.

‘Oh my dear,’ gasped Aziraphale, wiping a tear from his eye, ‘you were simply-’ He looked up, ‘simply-’. They both froze. Aziraphale suddenly realised that he was standing with gloved hands resting weakly on Crowley’s chest, gripped tightly by the demon on either arm. In the panic, Crowley’s irises had widened to fill his eyes with inhuman gold, and were now terrifyingly close. At least, Aziraphale told himself the feeling burbling inside him was terror. It has been noted that Aziraphale was a terrible liar.

They stepped back quickly.

Aziraphale coughed, and adjusted his shawl. ‘What even are you doing here Crowley? I thought you were away on business.’

‘I am. This is business.’

‘You came here? But you’ve known about this dance for weeks -’ he gasped, ‘you’ve been planning to work my territory? No wonder the minister was detained! What evil have you been sowing?’

‘None! You know I can’t sew - And it’s not “your territory” it’s the town hall, it’s fair game.’

‘You promised you would keep your evil work to Northfield Grange!’ said Aziraphale, feeling inordinately upset about the whole thing.

‘What? I said nothing of the sort! I’ve been wiling up and down right next to you all month and you haven’t even batted an eyelash!’

‘Well, I’m saying it now!’ said Aziraphale, feeling even more flustered. He wasn’t sure what wiling up _and_ down looked like, but it sounded like something he wanted to bat his eyelashes at in all the wrong ways, and he blamed Crowley entirely for bringing it up. He was being ridiculous, and he knew it.

‘You’re being ridiculous!’ confirmed Crowley, helpfully.

‘Maybe I am, but you’re being-’ what exactly Crowley was being, they never got to find out, for a voice broke in.

‘Miss Crowfell, is that you?’ Aziraphale turned to see the long awaited face of Mr Dawlings, it felt, both far too late, not a moment too soon, and exactly at the worst possible time.

‘Mr Dawlings, how...how good you’ve come!’ Aziraphale glanced back at Crowley, who gave him one look, and stalked back into the dance, with the shortest of bows.

‘Who was that man?’ enquired Mr Dawlings with alarm.

‘I h-hardly know him - we were acquainted only tonight!’

‘I’ve never seen such manners!’ exclaimed Mr Dawlings, ‘ought I to-’

‘Oh please, no, do not trouble yourself. He was out of spirits.’

‘But it is only right if-’

‘Really, it wouldn’t do to spoil anyone’s pleasure. Shall we go in? I’m sure there’s a dance or more left for you though -’ Aziraphale’s thoughts caught up with him, ‘for myself, I think I’m quite done in.’

‘Angelina, there you are! And Mr Dawlings!’ No sooner had they entered the main hall than Anne found them.

‘Miss Easton,’ said Mr Dawlings, ‘you are well I trust?’

‘Quite, yes.’

‘And your sister, she is enjoying her stay in London?’

‘Yes, I imagine so.’

‘And your mother and father are in good health?’ Aziraphale looked nervously at the musicians, who looked to be preparing for the next dance. Dawlings really ought to make a move unless he planned to stand here the whole evening.

‘All well. You must come round some time to visit, and then you may hear it from them.’

‘Yes, yes, I shall be sure to stop by on my parish rounds,’ they both paused, smiling gamely.

There was a tinny screaming in Aziraphale’s head. The violinist, about to begin, suddenly found the strings needed re-tuning.

‘Mr Dawlings, Anne, please do not let my presence detain you -’

‘No no, I should apologise, for I should have asked you first. Will you not dance, Miss Crowfell?’

‘Thank you, but, I have said already - I really must catch my breath first.’

‘Than you shall not rest alone, we can stay out with you,’ exclaimed Mr Dawlings, the very voice of neighbourly magnanimity.

‘Oh no, no, no, by all means, please,’ Aziraphale said, as the screaming got louder.

‘Miss Anne, if you aren’t engaged, or don’t wish to stay with your friend...’

‘I was promised to Mr Spencer, that’s Miss Lydia’s younger brother, but he’s nowhere to be seen.’

‘Oh! I wouldn’t dream of imposing, I’m content to wait if you like.’

‘No, no, I believe we would harm none to dance.’

‘But if you’d worry to slight Mr Spencer, think not of my wishes! I am as content to dance or not to dance. We might follow the advice of your friend and take delight in all, even watching.’

‘For what it’s worth,’ said Aziraphale, who did not grind his teeth, as that would be unseemly, ‘I would advise dancing if you are so inclined. I shall pass word to Mr Spencer, if he should return.’

‘Thank you that’s very… oh but the music is starting already. Perhaps then we’d best wait until the next-’

‘ _Go dance_.’ said Aziraphale, unable to stop putting a bit of power into the words. In his defence, he’d had it up to here, was really quite peeved at Crowley, and did not have the heart for watching Dawlings and Miss Easton self-immolate for the rest of the evening.

And, heavens be praised, they at last went to dance.

Aziraphale closed his eyes. He wished to be home.

Yet when he returned his gaze to the room, he thought he saw a Crowley-shaped shadow lurking in the farthest corner, or was that his hair bounding at the far end of the dance queue, or was he perhaps in conversation with another shadowed figure by the curtains? Aziraphale blinked.

He had had enough. Something was clearly wrong with this entire situation. The world was off balance, he was off balance. Why else should he be so blind as to not see Crowley in the first instance? And why else should he react so forcefully to the demon’s behaviour? Aziraphale could grudgingly admit Crowley hadn’t actually done anything wrong. Though it wasn’t his fault ‘THOU SHALT NOT ABANDON THY FRIEND, BRETHREN, OR EARTHBOUND ADVERSARY TO DANCE THE BOULANGER ALONE’ was a bit too long to go on a stone tablet.

Too soon the dance was over, and Anne returned, too alone, for Mr Dawlings had sought his friend Mr Archer.

‘Angelina, we have so much to talk about-’ she began, only to be cut off by Mrs Easton’s appearance, heralding their retreat homeward.

Aziraphale tried, and failed to glimpse Crowley as they departed, but did see Mr Archer speaking enthusiastically to the gamely expressionless Mr Dawlings.

( _To be fair, this might have been slightly memorable_ )

Mrs Easton delighted all with a detailed commentary of her impressions of the evening, and Aziraphale forgave himself for not listening quite as attentively as would strictly be polite. Not listening, that is until he heard his name.

‘And I was saying to Mrs Godfrey, who was that handsome gentleman that engaged Miss Angelina to dance? What a fine rakish look about him - and so well turned out, none of these garish colours some young men turn up in with no regard to their complexion. A proper sober beau, he was! Wouldn’t you say, Mr Easton?’

‘I took no notice of him.’

‘Oh, Mr Easton! Well, Mrs Godfrey and I said we hoped you have made his acquaintance, and Mrs Godfrey said she had never seen the gentleman in these parts before, but I said of course then he might be one of the Miss Crowfells’ friends from London! And I said to her, that of course, had you any such friend, then I shouldn’t take offence in having the excitement of a cultured guest to visit, would we Mr Easton?’

Mr Easton grunted.

Anne was staring at Aziraphale with ever widening eyes.

‘I assure you, I- I haven’t any idea which gentleman you speak of! There were no friends of mine at this dance!’

‘But to be sure! Of course you do!’

‘Mother-’ began Anne, unheeded

‘He was the uncommonly thin one, with the black hair, and those striking saturnalinian[2] features - Mrs Godfrey said he passed her earlier and had the light eyes she she always thought were most handsome in a gentleman-’

‘Mother, I wonder if you spoke to the Miss Allans, for I could not make my way to them?’

Mrs Easton swallowed mid-thought, and veered onto the Miss Allans. Anne shot a meaningful look at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale suspected he would not have to wait long to discern what Anne’s meaning was, and indeed, a knock came only moments after he had taken refuge in the bedroom.  
‘My dear Angelina, I must apologise on behalf of my mother,’ exclaimed Anne softly, closing the door behind her, ‘she means well, but often she does not see the effect her words have. But I saw. I too have often had to endure her unintended blows in silence, and I felt terribly for you!’

‘No, please, what blows?’ Aziraphale attempted a lighthearted laugh, which came across as rather strangled, ‘I assure you, I am perfectly well.’ He was not well. Something was clearly amiss across this town, and worse, he’d not managed to discover, much less thwart whatever evil Crowley had been up to that evening.

‘Please, I implore you not to feel you must hide your worries from me! I recognised in your face what I myself have felt many times. If I may venture… I believe I am not wrong in saying that the gentleman of which my mother spoke was in truth no stranger to you?’

Aziraphale opened his mouth, but found excuses irritatingly absent.

‘You seemed to know him, and I must admit… he did pass me on his return, and I happened to notice his very pale eyes, which I wondered if I had seen before. In your pendant.’

Aziraphale didn’t need to breathe, but there seemed to be some sort of battle going on in his lungs at the moment.

‘Oh Angelina,’ Anne grabbed Aziraphale’s hand, ‘I saw your distress when you returned from the dance! I know I am no sister to you, but should you need a confidante, I am sure we two may understand each other very well. I shall speak to no one of it, of course.’

Funny things, lungs, thought Aziraphale - he always thought they were a bit like paper sacking, but then Crowley said he’d heard they involved ravioli[3], which would explain why his chest presently felt to be filled with cheese, rather than air. ‘Thank you,’ he squeaked.

‘I will not press you to speak of it tonight. But I did want to say, if it may be of any help, I don’t know what passed between you, but when he passed me, his expression was such that one could not think otherwise than that he loves you most devoutly’

Aziraphale burst out a desperate laugh at the last, though it sounded entirely like a cry.

‘You are most kind to me,’ he croaked at last, patting her hand, ‘I’d best be alone with my thoughts for now.’

‘That I understand well! I will leave you to yours and me to mine, but I hope we shall talk tomorrow, for I have much I would hear your thoughts on - not the Miss Allans’ footwear though, fear not!’ she said, with lighter tone. Patting Aziraphale’s hand, she departed.

Alone, Aziraphale rose to lay his gloves on the dressing table, and so doing caught a fragment of Crowley’s cologne as it drifted off them. It caught in his throat. He looked at himself in the small dressing table mirror.  
‘Oh, what am I doing?’ With a wave of the hand, he was devoid of coral and ribbons, and clothed in his favourite dressing gown, of white cotton printed with a pattern of grey feathers. He was pages into the Clelend text before he realised he didn’t even know what he was looking for. Answers to Anne, answers to Crowley, answers to whatever force was still humming distractingly through the air over Edgewood Cottage. Answers to what was going wrong with him. Forget Cleland, what he wanted was Milton. He couldn’t say he’d revisited it much...ever… after its mortifying publication, but it was the closest to answers he was likely to get.

It was only as he lay Cleland aside that Anne’s words filtered back in his mind.  
‘She said she had something to speak with me about, and I - oh fool! - I was too distracted to notice! This is Crowley’s doing!’ he felt a right cake[4] to have trusted Crowley all these weeks, but then consoled himself that, no, he hadn’t been. It wasn’t trust, it was advantage - the ability to keep an eye on the demon at close range, and minimise his damaging effects. Let no glove be left unturned, nor any unspeakable unspeakable be left unscrutinised! Was not good ever vigilant? And had he not kept the vigil through day and night, while Crowley, asleep, was rendered harmless? He had indeed! Should he only employ vigils in situations where there were perceivable threats, rather than the intimate setting of a bedroom, in which he had vigilantly vigilled over a scandalously unclad demon drooling dangerously close to his thigh? Aziraphale thought he’d best not answer that, actually. A silly train of thought anyway! Vigilance - yes!

As his thoughts returned to Anne, he had a sudden burst of insight. Anne had not sought him out until after her dance with Mr Dawlings. Mr Dawlings had been very reserved before the dance - was it common reticence, or was it signs of a greater nervousness? The fear of a heart on the edge of confession? Of course, there was no way to be certain until he heard from Anne, but perhaps, perhaps there was good to come of this evening after all.

With that portion of his mind at rest, Aziraphale turned his thoughts to Milton. The unopened copy from Mr Easton’s study was delighted to find itself suddenly on Aziraphale’s desk.  
‘Hello there,’ said Aziraphale, eyeing it as though it were an old foe, ‘it’s been a while.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] I'd say what unspeakables are but they are unspeakable*  
> [2] no, this isn't a real word  
> [3] ravioli, alveoli, potato, pətɑːtəʊ  
> [4] you know where to [go](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/5402/5402.txt), dear reader
> 
> *trousers. they are trousers. especially very very tight ones. As are [inexpressibles](https://www.geriwalton.com/stories-of-trousers-known-as/), and unmentionables


	13. The Labyrinth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale finds himself in quite the tangle.
> 
> Featuring: A walk, a visitor, a conversation, a walk, a conversation, and many dreadful lies, and a few truths

Aziraphale was not fortunate enough to speak with Anne alone before breakfast. Mrs Easton was then determined to walk, and Anne determined that she should not go alone, despite her better judgement, and Mr Easton then decided to join them, against his better judgement, leaving Aziraphale to his own devices.

No sooner had the Eastons left, than Mr Dawlings came by. While Aziraphale explained the Easton’s absence, Mr Dawlings confided that there was, in fact, a matter upon which he had hoped to consult with Miss Angelina in person. Aziraphale realised that this was at last to be the moment of success, that Mr Dawlings had finally decided to make his intentions known to Miss Anne’s family, and wished to confirm first with her friend that he would not go amiss in so doing. How very much like him, and his reticent nature.

...

It was with utmost horror, then, that Miss Angelina received Mr Dawling’s proposal of marriage to her.

Her initial reaction was to assure them that he most certainly did not wish to marry her.

He suggested that it was she who was mistaken.

Miss Angelina then suggested that to do so would be impossible, because she was not seeking to marry. Mr Dawlings, with surprising boldness, inquired as to why not, and since Miss Angelina had not foreseen further enquiry, she stumbled on the first thing she could think of:

‘I’m  _ very  _ religious.’

To her surprise, Mr Dawlings laughed, ‘You? Miss Crowfell.’

‘Yes me, tremendously. Therefore, marriage is… out of the question.’

‘But I am a parson, and...forgive me… you’ve hardly spoken a word of it before. And well, none would dare think to accuse you piety. You take such delight in the world! It is, I believe, a great and admirable trait - to take small pleasures in all the world, the food and drink, companionship! What is this religion which compels you to eschew spousal companionship?’

Aziraphale gaped, ‘I- m- the Almighty does not forbid pleasure! I- assure you I’m quite…’ terrible. Aziraphale was possibly the worst angel ever, ‘my dear sir,’ he implored, ‘in truth, the real reason I am so opposed is that… Well. I am quite certain you do not love me, leastwise, not in the way a husband ought. I think, rather, I believe you love another- no, please, it is perfectly right - but I do wish you would give your love to...er...she who would return it.’

Mr Dawlings fell silent. His face coloured, and he turned to the mantel, fingers stumbling nervously upon the moulding. He looked out the window. ‘I. I. I-’ he risked a glance at Aziraphale, who tried to look encouraging, ‘I’m afraid you’ll find you’re r-rather wrong about the lady,’ he tumbled out in one miserable breath, and bowing, hastily took his leave.

‘Oh dear. Oh dear me.’

…

Aziraphale sat at the desk, two fingers tapping absently on the closed Cleland copy, awaiting Anne’s return. The optimist in him thought perhaps fate had brought Mr Archer to meet Anne on the way, and confess his true feelings. The realist and the pessimist in him were joining forces and submitting a joint petition to give it up as a bad job and go back to London, where he could forget about all this. He was stoically ignoring them.

He heard the Eastons return, and shortly thereafter, Anne appeared in the doorway.

‘I know I’ve just been, but it’s such a pleasant day, I’m not willing to be indoors yet, and I was wondering if you’d join me in a turn about the grounds?’

Aziraphale was only too glad, and equally, too horrified. 

‘How are you?’ she enquired, as soon as they were out of earshot of the house.

‘Oh I’m fine, absolutely spiffing. Tip-top!’ Aziraphale said, convincingly, he thought, ‘I’ve had a - a sleep!’ yes, that’s what humans had, ‘and I feel a hundred times better. No-no thoughts at all about men or m-marriage - why would I think of that! - or men in unspeakables, for that matter!’

Anne’s eyes creased with pity, ‘oh my dear, I feel for you so! For indeed, I have so often felt the pain of shock in meeting certain… people… when they were not expected, and I had not prepared myself! So often, I feel I have moved on to happily accept our friendship as one that a brother and sister might have, but then, when I have not had the warning to prepare myself, I have felt the separation again as though it were new! But, dear Anne, I must tell you, and I hope you may take heart in it, that I believe I shall at last find peace in that matter.’

Aziraphale’s heart, which was mostly decorative, rather overstepped its role to leap at this moment. Could it be?

‘You shall?’

‘Yes, I believe I shall. You know, I always found Mr Dawlings and Mr Archer such funny friends. So unalike. I never liked Mr Archer much, in truth,’ said Anne, ‘though Mr Dawlings stands by his friendship. Mr Archer can be so thoughtless in his pleasures, and we don’t agree on morals. But my early dislike of him put me at ease, in a way. I needed none of the pretensions I might use around someone whose esteem I hoped to gain. I sought none from him, so have been at ease to express my true thoughts.’

‘But ease is not the same as...liking?’ said Aziraphale, hoping she would get to the point about Mr Dawlings.

‘No, but he seems to have developed a genuine appreciation for my thoughts, and I can respect that. And his coarser ways have seen restraint in these recent months. He seems capable of reform. I must confide, Angelina, for I do feel quite safe in you-’

Aziraphale’s stomach, also mostly decorative, took this time to explore its potential, and dropped.

‘Mr Archer has… well, he’s proposed to me.’

‘Oh. Oh my dear. Oh my. Did you… have you accepted it?’

‘Oh no! No. But neither have I rejected him. I asked time to consider, and he granted it. Which is to his credit.’

‘But you still have doubts?’

Anne looked guilty, ‘Mr Dawlings never said so directly, but sometimes in speaking of his friend, I came to the understanding that his actions were not always so considerate. Among his family and oldest friends, he is kind. To Mr Dawlings, to my father. But among others, I feel less sure.’

‘But then surely…’

‘Yes, I know. But I feel ill ease at refusing. I am a burden to my father, and Mr Archer is as grand a gentleman as he would wish me to aspire to. I fear too that Mr Archer may turn to greater excess if faced with the cut of rejection, and I should feel responsible.’

‘You mustn’t!’

‘But I  _ would _ , even though I know it is without sense. It would torment me.’

‘But what of your own happiness?’

‘What happiness is this? I have waited so long, and for all my waiting, there has never been that which would shew my hopes bear fruit. Rather, I come to think I’ve been a fool to hold them for so long, especially as they would yet have to fight my family’s disapproval. But, I shall overcome my disappointment, and it would seem, learn all too little from it.’

‘My dear girl, you mustn’t give up yet. Writ and propriety are only one indication of what is right. Sometimes…’ Even Aziraphale was unsure where this was going. He liked writ and propriety. He was (usually) contractually obliged to follow it. However, sometimes the humans got it rather wrong. He had a feeling humans weren’t the only ones, either, but he tended to leave those sorts of thoughts alone. However, the clanging tension jittered heavily on the edges of his thoughts, making it harder to pin them down. ‘Sometimes we must follow other things - our own inborn sense of what is good. Sometimes we must judge a person not by their position, or role, but by their actions. If you have known someone for many years, you may observe their actions, and know them to act with goodness, and treat you with esteem and respect. Such a person I am certain cannot be worth exchanging for any other!’

‘You must love him very much,’ said Anne.

‘Mr Dawlings? I’ve never thought of him!’ said Aziraphale, with alarm.

‘No, no! Him who you speak of - he whose likeness you carry. I hear in your words that you speak not from conjecture, but from what you know, and have seen yourself. You have known one who would make all the long years of your life bearable, if he could. But there is an impediment for you too, isn’t there - that’s why you carry the secret picture?’

‘I - you could say.’  _ All the long years _ seemed to hang in the tingling air. There was only one person who had been a constant through the long years of Aziraphale’s life, and those years were many indeed

‘Do you find it difficult? To be so close to someone, and never be able to say what you truly wish? For I do - most days I can bear it, but others - oh! - I dare not speak of it even to Charlotte - but I feel I am drowning!’

Aziraphale’s mind was given pause by the sudden thought of red hair spilling like brandy on linen, of shared wine and chocolates, and crepes, and oysters, and secret drawers full of millennia of collected tokens. His thoughts danced along the edge of a dream, a garden, flooded with golden sunlight, and the scent of apple blossoms. His lungs filled, but not with air.

‘Drowing. Yes. Drowning is... quite the word.’

‘Have you never told him?’

‘No!’

‘What of your own happiness, then?’

Aziraphale coughed, grasping for his composure. ‘There’s still a chance for you, dear thing. Mine will keep.’ Forever, ideally, as it was impossible, unthinkable, inexpressible. Terrifying even to be decidedly not thinking of it now!

‘You see…’ began Anne, and Miss Angelina felt a sense of dread, ‘I know, or I hope that my affection for...certain people… might be shared. But even if it is. To be loved for so long by one who is incapable of speech or action. Surely he must see that our chances wane, yet he does not act. I have done all I can within the confines of my sex. Mr Archer is Mr Dawlings’ closest friend, therefore, Mr Dawlings must know of the proposal, yet he has said nothing, taken no action. I have heard nothing from him this fortnight besides his reluctant polite enquiries. What kind of love is that? Indeed what kind of character? Must I be consigned ever to hope without fulfilment?’

Aziraphale winced inwardly, ‘No, of course not. But my dear, perhaps he is afraid. If he believes an impossible proposal would lose you forever, if he is equally aware of your father’s disapproval...’

‘It is as easy to believe he is indifferent, especially that he still acts not. No, I have not your faith, I’m afraid. I need some proofs, even if small. But I shall retain a small hope, for your sake, dear Angelina!’


	14. The Duel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Nile is also a river in Hampshire.  
> OR  
> A near miss misses a miss who has a near miss near the miss who nearly misses the near missed miss, then the nearly misses miss nearly.
> 
> With apologies to: grammar, a sheep, Emily Brontë, Crowley's tailor, exodus
> 
> CW: mild gore

It was a dark night, as nights tend to be. Aziraphale couldn’t sleep, but then, he rarely slept. However, on this night, he was certain he wouldn’t have been able to sleep even if he had wanted to.

There wasn’t a storm brewing yet, but the air tingled with electricity and discontentment. Aziraphale felt more than ever the strange disquiet about the house weighing on him. Everything was out of balance. Anne had received a proposal he could not bear to bless, he had received a proposal he would never think to accept, and on top of everything, Crowley was missing. He had thought that after the events of the dance he would receive some sort of message, or even, since business was clearly not going well, that he would hear of his alleged sister’s return. It would only be polite.

Instead, he’d had nothing, neither hide, nor hair, nor scale - only an ever more weighty sense of desperate inquietude. Crowley of all people would appreciate what Aziraphale was experiencing, he would be amused to know of Archer’s intention to- 

Aziraphale stopped mid-thought.

He ought to have known.

He probably _had_ known. And not only did he say nothing, he had distracted Aziraphale, so he wasn’t on hand to intervene whenever Archer must have made his desires known.

The more Aziraphale thought, the more he was convinced that Crowley wasn’t only aware of Archer's intentions, but had planted them himself!

Of all the foul, feindish, thwartworthy, downright evil, rotten, and jolly unpleasant things to do to a chap! Aziraphale raged with the determination of someone who never swore, and was carefully avoiding slipping from righteous fury into Wrath.

There was nothing for it! He was taking a walk!

Aziraphale hadn’t bothered with his nightgown, since he wasn’t sleeping, so donned his walking boots and redingote over his dress and slipped out into the darkness, quiet as a prayer.

He didn’t strictly need a lantern, and waited until he was out of sight from the cottage to call forth a helpful glow, as he headed east along the brookside path. There was a pale grey glow on the eastern horizon, suggesting dawn was on its way, but all was yet quiet, except for a very distant owl. Aziraphale walked and walked, as he tried to untangle his thoughts, which were like the muddle of ribbons in the bottom of his trunk. That made him think of Crowley’s hands as he untangled the corset strings, but he hadn’t even seen Crowley do that, and anyway, he’d cheated, and why was Aziraphale even thinking about this, something was wrong with him. Crowley this, and Crowley that, and Crowley’s ruddy perfume clinging here and there, and Crowley’s red-shot silk waistcoat, and his snakeskin feet that might sometimes be shoes, and Crowley asleep, which was the most fascinating thing of all.

Aziraphale allowed himself to feel a wave of guilt, all alone in the woods. In truth, he had been mostly unable to read once he’d discovered how interesting a sleeping Crowley was. He’d reasoned with himself that it was the sleep itself that fascinated him - sleep that he rarely, if ever partook in. And after all, he was an angel who, at least in legend, was made to watch over sleeping children, sleeping flocks, sleeping shepherds… or maybe he’d got that wrong. Anyway, it wasn’t his fault Crowley was so captivating. He was a master at sleep, an artist at work - it was his most cultivated hobby. And Aziraphale… Aziraphale had been captivated. Entranced, even. Or worse, willingly distracted.

He ought to have worked harder, and stuck to his sources, figured out a method to bring Anne and Mr Dawlings together. Read enough so he wouldn’t have been blindsided by both Dawlings’s and Archer’s proposals. Well. Better late than never at all. He knew what he had to do. When he next saw Crowley, if he next saw Crowley, he would simply tell him that he could no longer stay with the Eastons, that he never should have allowed him in the first place, that it was too much seeing him every day, and speaking with him every day, and dining with him and having him do his laces and a person got to expect things and when those expectations were broken-

No! Wait. Not that. He would tell Crowley he must go, and he did not wish to see him again for a good long time, because he had broken the terms of their agreement, and hampered Aziraphale’s work. Yes. And it was safer for the both of them if they both stayed out of each other’s territory. And if, and only if Aziraphale decided to forgive him some day, and Crowley wanted to come round again for a very professional discussion of business, over dinner or a bottle of wine, only in a very, very long time, you understand, then perhaps he could try his luck. But he should be warned that Aziraphale was not to be trifled with and if he even thought of-

Suddenly, a force came barreling down the path and rammed into Aziraphale’s gut.

‘OOOMF!’

Funny things lungs, you really did get terribly dependent on them.

He grabbed the source of the force, which screamed.

‘Letmego lemmego!’ Aziraphale thought of a lantern, and the light he’d been travelling with had the decency to be slightly lantern shaped, at least in the small human’s imagination.

He was a child of around 9 or 10 years old, and not grubby, per se, but with the suggestion of grub. He was mostly limbs, and with those limbs, had apparently been hurtling through the pre-dawn grey.

‘My dear child, what are you running from?’

‘Not running from! Running to- I'm a runner, got a message!’

‘At this time?’ Aziraphale glanced at the path behind him.

The boy shrugged, ‘yeah, well, you’re out. Miss,’ he added, as an afterthought, with a bob of the hat.

‘True. But. I am a lady.’

‘Yup, and I’m a boy, with messages to deliver, so I’d better go.’

‘May I ask...boy?’

‘Hareton.’ said the boy.

Hareton? My goodness, what were these humans thinking, ‘Well, Hareton, might I ask where you’re going, only, I’ve just come from that way.’

‘Edgewood Cottage! Misses Easton and Crowfell!’ rattled off the boy.

‘Why, I am Miss Crowfell!’ exclaimed Aziraphale, ‘My dear boy, what is the message?’

‘You can have it.’ said the boy, handing over a note, ‘just, if you’re not really Miss Crowfell, can you please drop it by the cottage once you’ve read it, so I don’t get in trouble.’

‘Of course, but I can assure you, I am Miss Crowfell,’ said Miss Crowfell.

‘Alright then. G’day!’ said the boy, and ran off again, this time towards the fields, in a more relaxed, gangly amble.

Aziraphale opened the note. 

> _To Miss Easton and Miss Crowfell:_
> 
> _I imagine you will find this unusual, and I apologise for the impropriety of my contacting you, and would be ever grateful if you not mention it, but I thought the information would be better known than unknown. I have known the Misses, especially Miss Easton, from the parties at Northfield Grange, though you will not have noted me, I hope, as I am in the employ of the Archers. The close friendship between Mr Archer, his friend Mr Dawlings, and the Eastons is known from their many visits, and for this I write to you._
> 
> _It is known among the household that, following words yesterday between Mr Archer’s friend, and another man who with he does business, there is to be a duel at dawn between Mr Dawlings and a Mr Coley, in the horsefield at the northern grange border. They fight to the blood._
> 
> _They say it is not a lady’s business but they have always said that, and it was just how I lost mine._
> 
> _I shall not sign, but I hope this information finds you and serves you._

At first, Aziraphale read with bemusement - what on earth could persuade Mr Dawlings to-

Then he stopped. Mr Coley. Mr Coley? Crowley. Oh dear lord.

Aziraphale pushed the note into his stays, and ran. He followed the path eastward, then broke through the trees, scrambling along the hedges that wended towards the northward border of the grange. No more were the fields hidden in the gloom of night, and all waited in pools of ever brightening mist for the impending dawn. Far off to his left, Aziraphale could see the dark facade of Northfield house silhouetted through the mist, and fear hammered in his heart. He wished he had his breeches on. Brambles snagged in his skirt, and the bracken tangled his steps, slowing him. Not to mention he hadn’t run since… oh who knows. That’s why the Lord saw fit to give the world coaches.

What had Crowley done? Demon or no, Aziraphale had never known him to partake in any actual combat with humans. Aziraphale was the one with the sword...in theory… anyway… Crowley was all tongue and wiles and slipping away before he got his hands or anything else dirty, and Aziraphale couldn’t help thinking … well … that neither of them enjoyed watching real pain and suffering more than the other. Crowley reckoned it was no fun.

But a duel? Crowley could be hurt, or killed - inconveniently discorporated, anyway, and the paperwork was a nightmare for getting a new body. Goodness knows what other demon they might send in his place in the meantime! Someone made of maggots, or scabs, or something that wasn’t nearly as amiable as snakey pupils and slithery hips, which he’d grown rather accustomed to. And he couldn’t imagine any of Crowley’s dishonourable colleagues enjoying a bottle of Madeira, unless it was to hit someone over the head with.

Gasping for breath, Aziraphale paused, bent double. Why, oh why must the grange be on a hill? Just then, as he gulped in air, the morning peace was shattered by the sound of a gunshot. And another. Crows scattered, crying out in alarm.

‘No!’ cried Aziraphale, and ran again in earnest. He didn’t need to breathe, not really, he was an angel, for heaven’s sake. ‘Please, let him not be harmed, let him not be harmed.’ He told himself he was thinking equally of Crowley and Drowl- Draw- Dawlings - but in truth, he could barely remember the human’s name. Somewhere, on another plane, his wings unfurled, and beat, once, twice, thrice, speeding him on an otherworldly gust.

Crashing through a stand of hazel trees, he came at last to the fence and stile on the border between the grange and the northerly fields. Climbing on the stile, he peered desperately about. The area lay in a depression, and the mist was heavier, sunk in. He could see no one. His heart pounded in panic. Then, he heard a faint noise from amid the trees, like steam escaping. Clambering towards it, he rounded a fat holly bush, and there-

‘Crowley!’ the demon was slumped against a cluster of hazel.

‘Oh Crowley! You stupid, stupid thing!’ he ran to him, and grasped him by the shoulders. Crowley’s eyes blinked open.

‘Az-’

‘Are you injured? You’re injured!’ Aziraphale’s kid glove came away red, where he’d grasped Crowley’s left shoulder.

‘Azira-’ Crowley shifted

‘No! You mustn’t move! We will fix this - you mustn’t be discorporated, you hear me!’

Tossing aside his ruined gloves, he manoeuvred Crowley to the ground, frantically shucking off the demon’s black coat, and tearing at the buttons on his waistcoat. Berry red blossomed across the white shirt beneath.

The discerning reader may have observed that neither Aziraphale nor Crowley were particularly adept at managing bodies without divine or infernal intervention. They typically only dealt with the pleasant things - the tasting bit of eating, the fuzzy bit of drinking. Digestion and expulsion and hangovers were for lifers, not hobbyists. Had they been more human, Aziraphale might have known to put pressure on the wound, rather than trying to get at it. Either way, if Crowley were human, he might have survived at first, but would certainly have been taken out by gangrene in short order after.

Instead, Aziraphale found that he was quite strong enough to tear a fine linen shirt right in half if need be. He wondered if he’d have to tear his gown into strips to staunch the flow of blood. That’s what they did in books. He was going to be good at this!

‘Aziraphale! I’m fine!’ barked Crowley.

‘You’re not! You’re in shock!’ said Aziraphale, spreading his palms across Crowley’s torso to better feel for injuries. This was also what they did in books! Arguably. Crowley’s skin was warm and shivery. ‘The pain will hit you soon enough, just lie still, so I can heal y-’

He got to the shoulder. It was clearly covered in blood, but when Aziraphale’s hands floated delicately over the skin, he found no break in it.

‘You- you’ve healed yourself?’

‘No, I-hurgh!’

Aziraphale hauled Crowley’s torso forward against him, pulling the remains of the shirt lower, to inspect the back side of his shoulder.

‘Ah cphr explppph’ said Crowely, through a mouthful of Aziraphale’s hair and scarf.

‘But, I don’t understand,’ began Aziraphale, laying him down again. Drawing away, his hand snagged on something in the coat. A jeweled brooch, whose stones, if you were in the know, spelled ‘O! How evil’. Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide.

‘Crowley,’ he breathed, glancing heavenward, ‘the brooch - you’ve been miraculously spared!’

Crowley spluttered, sitting up, or doing his best, with Aziraphale straddling his legs.

‘Angel stop. Listen. I haven’t been…’ he spluttered again, ‘saved. It was a trick, insurance! I haven’t been shot! _Somebody_ needed to be though, and my aim’s terrible… probably... Never touch guns myself…not my style,’ he grimaced, ‘anyway, so I rigged up a bladder full of sheep’s blood, put it under my coat. Put the brooch pin just right and, with a little tug on the bottom hem, pop, job done! Duel’s over! Pretty clever, huh?’ He grinned at Aziraphale, ‘Just thought I’d have a little nap here while the dust settled. No harm done.’

‘But- _Crowley_ ,’ Aziraphale pulled his hand away from the pin, bringing with it the stumped, mutilated end of a bullet, which had been wedged between the pin’s fixtures.

The both stared at it, in horror.

‘Guhh. I could have sworn Dawlings was aiming over my other ear…’

‘He probably was,’ said Aziraphale, gravely, ‘I doubt he’s any more of a rum shot than you are.’

They stared at each other. Aziraphale reckoned he could _see_ Crowley’s heart pounding.

He got the sudden inclination that there was something he really ought to do right now. It was on the tip of his tongue, the cusp of his mind. It was probably right in front of him, but he couldn’t put a shape to it.

It came to Crowley, but a moment too late. He leant forward. Aziraphale’s lips parted.

‘Well, I, I, I suppose we’d best be getting back,’ said Aziraphale, sitting back on his (and Crowley’s) haunches, ‘or, I, I mean, _I_ ought to be getting back. Unless you..?’

He rose, shakily, and offered Crowley a hand.

‘My business is done here, I think. Archer won’t want to see me for a while. Besides,’ Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand, and pulled himself up, ‘this was my only shirt.’

Releasing their grip, both flexed their hands discreetly, wondering why they’d suddenly got the impression of a blast of sunlight, and a sun-drenched garden somewhere else.

Aziraphale tutted, ‘Well perhaps you ought to warn me next time you’re plotting some scheme, and I won’t…’ he trailed off, looking at Crowley’s naked torso, undone waistcoat dangling around the tattered linen. No word came to mind. Then several did, but they were all tremendously scandalous.

‘Anyway, it’s high time Antonia came back from her gallivanting - I’d imagine Angelina must have been getting up to all sorts of trouble - if you don’t er mind, anyway.’

‘Not nearly as much trouble as you’ve been in,’ said Aziraphale quietly, with another sidelong look at Crowley’s undress.

‘Oh now,’ he popped out a pair of amber glasses from somewhere, and examined them, ‘I think you’d better tell me what got Mr Dawlings so hot and bothered. Miss Angelina’s name may have come up once or twice. I’ll show you mine if you…’

‘Oh fine, if you must know, Dawlings proposed.’

‘Really!? Didn’t think he had it in him - hang on, wasn’t that what you wanted?’

‘Not to Anne, he proposed to me! It was...embarrassing. Personally, and professionally.’

Crowley cringed with empathy ‘But he doesn’t feel…’

‘Oh good heavens no, of course he doesn’t have feelings for me, at least not those sort. I’m not sure I ever inspire _those_ sorts of feelings in people. I’m certainly not meant to.’

Crowley opened his mouth.

‘And anyway,’ Aziraphale continued. Crowely shut his mouth, ‘It was perfectly obvious he still cares for Anne. But he was convinced the feeling wasn’t returned. I believe his actions were spurred by Mr Archer’s proposal.’

‘Not him too! To you!?’

Aziraphale shot him a look, ‘Not to me. To Anne. Surely you knew.’ He watched Crowley carefully.

‘Iiiiiiii. Archer _proposed_? I mean, he had been going on about her, but I just thought… well, he’s not exactly the marrying type.’ He was more the outwardly genteel, but inwardly in need of mercury fumigation type.

‘How could you not know? He proposed to her sometime around the last ball- I thought you had-’

‘Oh great, well that’s my job done in!’

‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘I thought something was off. Archer’s been talking like he was on the path to reformation. Given up excess, cavorting, even picked up a vaguely moral text. I couldn’t be more disgusted!’

‘That… doesn’t sound like him.’

‘It’s not, it’s that bloody Anne’s influence. First, he took her on as a bit of a lark - he’s as irritated by Dawling’s inaction as the rest of us - he said he thought it would spur the lump into action.’

‘But that was your idea!’

‘Yeah, and it will be, in the paperwork. He thought it up on his own before I had the chance to suggest it. I told you his soul was heading our way already. More recently though… well he seems to bloody like her, and it’s made my job a lot harder! Yours too, sounds like.’

‘You don’t say.’

‘Why did you think I took a hiatus from the cottage? Had to keep a closer eye on him. One minute he’s set to do my job without me even lifting a finger, next, he’s on about how _enlivening_ it is to view the world through an untainted spy-glass, and something silly about Anne’s hair, and honestly I dunno I stopped listening after the spy-glass bit.’

‘Well, mightn’t that be a good thing?’

‘Forget it. First of all, _your_ job is the “good” thing, second... You can’t do what he does if, deep down, you really believe in people’s worth. I reckon your Miss Easton isn’t the first person he’s changed his colours for. All I know is I need to get him to join business ventures with Easton, and he’s not going to do that if it’s his father in law. Would make it too difficult for him to bow out, he said.. He’s nothing if not committedly noncommittal.’

‘Yes I did wonder at his somewhat mercurial nature.’

‘Somewhat? Do you have any idea how many illegitimate children he probably has?’

Aziraphale gasped, ‘No! Those poor girls.’

‘Exactly, and neither does he!’

‘What happened with Mr Dawlings anyway?’

Crowley grimaced, ‘Eeerrg silly really not important.’

‘Crowley, I need to know!’ he may have stamped a foot, ‘you were nearly killed.’

‘Fiiine. He called you Angel.’

‘What?’

‘I dunno. He was going on about something and said you were an angel, and I said you weren’t, and he had no right, propriety and all, if he’d said “Miss” I mean, anyway, thought I’d do a pal a favour, not blow your cover, and next thing I know, he’s all bluster and saying how I was a rogue, and he “knew me”, and he wouldn’t stand for it, and then there’s his glove on the ground, and I’m in a duel. I tell you these humans are full of surprises. Bad ones, mostly.’

‘Oh. I. Well. You were defending my honour?’

‘I think _he_ was...’

‘Well, it doesn’t sound like he knew what he was talking about. At all!’

‘He must’ve recognised me from the ball, and assumed…’

‘Hmph! You know what they say a person does when they assume-’

‘They...don’t fall far from the tree?’’

‘No that’s not-’

‘They keep the doctor away!’

‘No, that doesn’t sound right either. I think it was something rude…’ the both paused in thought.

‘Oh well, this was definitely rude. Nearly killed me! And ruined my waistcoat. Though maybe I can work the bloodstain into my look, whaddya think, Angel.’ He wrapped the clothes around him in a sweep.

‘Very dashing! Though perhaps more in a “ghost highwayman” sort of way than for polite society.’

‘You’re right. I suppose I’d best-’ he snapped his fingers. He was at once garbed in one of Miss Antonia’s travelling ensembles, in black and deepest burgundy. He adjusted the brooch on his jacket.

Aziraphale looked down at his bloodstained gloves. A distant memory of Egypt passed through the back of his mind.

‘Want me to…’ said Crowley, gesturing at them.

‘Oh, I couldn’t wear them now. They’ll always be stained, on some level,’ he shuddered.

‘For appearance’s sake?’

‘Go on then.’

Crowley did. Aziraphale swallowed, and did not put the gloves on.

Blowing off a speck of dust, Crowley slid the amber glasses up his nose. He glanced at Aziraphale, then snapped his fingers again. Aziraphale’s skirt decided it was as tidy as it had been when it left the tailor’s.

Together, they ambled back to Edgewood Cottage.

Everything could have been well.

And yet...

...

( _A 'duel' according to someone who apparently has similar source material to Aziraphale)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Now might be a good time to point out that the brooch doesn't only spell 'O! How evil'. Unbeknownst to Aziraphale and Crowley, but knownst to Aziraphale's jeweller, who didn't realise evil had anything to do with it.


	15. The Snake (is just another dance)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Crowfell sisters have returned to the cottage but all is not well. 
> 
> Featuring: a brewing storm, and probably-not-forbidden fruit (and, at last! a pear tree - partridges not appearing in this fic)

‘Miss Crowfell, is anything the matter?’

‘No, not at all, I’m quite well. Quite.’

‘Then what is it that so alarms you out the window?’

‘Nothing, there’s nothing out the window and I’m no - oh dear me!’ Aziraphale jumped, for the fourth time that hour.

So, alright, he may have been a bit jumpy. You would be jumpy too if you had a reticule full of formerly bloodstained gloves, and the remains of a bullet that Crowley may or may not have known you kept, and a note about a duel- of all things-, and not one, but TWO proposals you couldn’t speak of, not to mention a duel you couldn’t speak of, any of which were probably moments away from being exposed by a visit or a messenger or Mr Dawlings, or -

A shutter slammed somewhere and Aziraphale jumped again.

‘Fine!’ exclaimed Mrs Easton, who had been striving valiantly to enlighten the room on the proper way people ought to be educating their daughters, and the shocking notion of Teaching Masters, and how the appreciation of a lady’s true role has been replaced by some terribly silly ideas, like Languages, nobody wanted to hear a person rolling her tongue about unseemly foreign words, it wasn’t decent, and just showed you what kind of quality her parents were. And now that she came to it, those people getting false elevation through tutors wasn’t right either, some people came by it through persisting persistently and natural nature, and all that. By knowing what you were. Couldn’t have people thinking up what they were and acting like it… gave them all sorts of silly ideas.

‘It’s clear to me that your nerves aren’t well today, and who would I be to trouble a person when they weren’t in spirits?’ said Mrs Easton, exactly like someone who takes it very personally indeed if a person had a fit of the nerves, or heaven forbid, a headache, while she was entertaining them.

‘Don’t take offence Mama,’ said Anne, ‘Remember, Angelina had a very early start to fetch her sister, she means nothing by it. We should be more surprised if she was all well.’

‘Why on earth would I take offence?’ said Mrs Easton, clearly taking offence, ‘I’ve taken no offence! I only said it looks as though something is the matter, but far be it from me to make judgements on ladies’ behaviour, it is not as though I know anything of the subject, being a lady myself, or having raised two daughters, no, I shan’t speak any more on it!’

Crowley, who was being unusually unobjectionable, stayed silent, and Aziraphale suspected him of dozing behind his glasses. Under Aziraphale’s eyes, it suddenly appeared as though the burgundy was growing redder on the left shoulder of Crowley’s gown, and spreading like blood. He blinked and it was gone.

‘You know,’ gasped Aziraphale, ‘I think I could use some air. I’ll just...yes.’ He fled from the room.

It was unbearable. It all was unbearable. The whole house nearly iridesced with the haze of impending calamity. Nothing had gone right, and no one was doing as they ought. Anne, in moral torment, wouldn’t speak her thoughts, Mr Dawlings, with baffling hesitance had not made a visit, or even sent a note. Mr Archer was equally absent. In short, any action that could have spurred them out of the current morass refused to take place!

And then there was Crowley. He seemed innocent enough of what was going on (as innocent as he could be anyway) but he too seemed to have been affected by the atmosphere. As was Aziraphale. Aziraphale had observed that Crowley’s sleep had been more troubled than what was apparently normal, and there was now some sort of strange supernatural...sparkage… occurring, and it only seemed to be getting worse. First there were the dreams - Aziraphale didn’t sleep, as a habit, much less dream, but he’d dozed off a few times here, and had repeat visions that were a lot like looking directly into the sun, except with a nice grassy herb under foot. That couldn’t be normal, and he didn’t even think it was Crowley’s influence. At least, not his deliberate influence. And it was starting to invade the waking world too. When Crowley had taken his hand earlier, he’d had the oddest flash of...of something. It was either horrifically natural, or tremendously supernatural, and either way, Aziraphale was terrified of it.

‘Angelina! Oy, Angel. You alright?’ Crowley slunk across the grounds towards him, weaving his way between the knobbly trees of a former orchard.

‘Perfectly fine, thank you.’

Crowley gave the impression of narrowing his eyes, even though they weren’t strictly visible. ‘Sure you look fine. How bout a nap? Always helps me.’

‘No!’ cried Aziraphale in alarm, ‘not that. I mean, I don’t think that would help. I don’t need sleep, anyway. Or like it, like you,’ he laughed uneasily.

Crowley’s freshly grown ringlets blew in the breeze, bright against the old fruit trees. Far away, and high above, a storm was coalescing. A memory of Eden stirred in Aziraphale’s mind.

‘A snack?’ Crowley looked imploringly over the top of his glasses.

‘No, I...oh, well maybe that would help… I haven’t eaten since yesterday.’

Crowley pushed the glasses back up, ‘there we are. See, I know you of old, Angel,’ he looked about, and pulled an apple from a nearby tree, cleaning it against his skirt. He held it out.

‘Crowley!’ gasped Aziraphale.

‘It’s an apple! It’s just an apple!’ Look, there’s a bunch of others, they’re just wormier, I’ll go find a bloody pear, if you’re going to be all…’

‘No! No. I overreacted.’

‘You’re perfectly happy with me passing you a tart tatin - or does baking burn off that pesky knowledge of good and evil?’

‘I … I hadn’t thought.’

‘Angel, if I was going to tempt you, I’d just include puff pastry, but it wouldn’t exactly be a challenge. I’m not sure it would even count as a temptation.’

‘You’ve made your point,’ said Aziraphale, biting into the apple. It was perfectly normal, if ever so slightly green. He did feel better, he thought, taking another bite, then stopping a dribble of juice from heading down his chin. He looked up at Crowley. Crowley looked at him. The breeze died. All of a sudden he did not feel better at all. He felt rather silly, and light headed, and like all his internal organs had been replaced by his heart.

‘What did you do?’

‘I didn’t! Ok, I encouraged the worms to go elsewhere, but I didn’t _do_ anything! Let me see that!’ he snatched the fruit from between Aziraphale’s fingers, glared at it, and took a bite.

‘Euch - it’s a bit green. _It should know better_!’ in his hand, the apple blushed accordingly, ‘there we are, no harm done. I’ve done worse to wine, and you’ve had it gladly!’

Aziraphale’s mouth must have been hanging open slightly, because when Crowley pushed the apple directly into his mouth it stuck.

‘Eat up, it’s not the end of the world. Today, anyway.’ He patted Aziraphale on the cheek, and sauntered back to the house. The apple tasted of apple, sunshine, and Crowley.

Aziraphale, tip to toe, was filled with the strangest feeling. Oh dear.

( _snek with a snek - William Blake_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -I have a pet theory that Aziraphale and Crowley would have both REALLY enjoyed Much Ado About Nothing (terrible schemes involving costumes, a love expressed mostly through arguing, also David Tennant is outstanding in it, but never mind that). Anyway, Crowley quotes one of Beatrice's lines at Aziraphale ('I know you of old')
> 
> -chapter count has gone up - I grossly underestimated the length of a couple of these chapters


	16. The True Lovers Knot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spontaneous combustion. Behold! 
> 
> Featuring: Purple prose, copious references to Milton, slightly regency and _very_ Milton depiction of: clicket, basket making, the goats jigg, the blanket hornpipe, jockup cloy, the two handed put...

( _Here comes trouble_ )

Aziraphale was reading Milton, frantically. It wasn’t his usual fare, but if anyone could inform him, it had to be Milton. Unusually, he was struggling to concentrate. The chair was cold, and hard, and by now he was quite certain the cushion (if you could call it that) was filled with horse-hair, based on the way it crunched.

Crowley, sleeping, writhed on the bed.

Aziraphale thought of viol bowstrings, a much better use of horse-hair. He thought of the country dances, and their homely rhythms, and the devil’s reel, which was nothing like the devil at all, unless you counted the one curling harmlessly across the room from him, red hair spilled across the sheets.

_Love’s proper hue_

He thought of the virtuoso’s angst-filled contortions of sheep-gut and horsehair that somehow transcended the ethereal or the infernal to make something else, something human, and beyond human - the sublime longing of the human soul… for ...for… for what?

Aziraphale didn’t know, and he suspected, wasn’t supposed to know or feel that longing. But he could feel it. Form shapes function, and he’d had 5,000 odd years in his body He was not human, but lived in a vehicle that typically experienced the world through a range of human sensations, and lately he’d been feeling both tremendously human, and tremendously not human at all. For the first time, he’d been facing an invasion of dreams and emotions that he couldn’t wave away, as you might a bothering moth, but all of them seemed much larger than his body’s normal capacity. It were as though he were a river, whose embankments found themselves receiving all the winter thaws, and spring deluges at once, and now, in the distance, thunder was threatening. He feared for whatever was on the floodplain if the banks overflowed.

Crowley shifted again, alarmingly, his body now vertical against the wall, head downwards, and hair cascading earthwards in a suspended fall-

_Flowing, illustrious, hyacynthine, resplendant locks inwreathed, loose garlands, amber streams_

Aziraphale decided Milton wasn’t helping, and put it down.

Crowley’s fingers twitched minutely in sleep.

‘Crowley,’ sighed Aziraphale, heart giving a funny jolt.

He went over to the bed, and sat down, ‘Whatever shall I do with you?’

Crowley, upside down, did not respond.

After a moment, his head jerked to the side with a hissing intake of breath, crushing into the angel’s shoulder. It would have been alarming, had Aziraphale not already witnessed a similar action, in the horizontal, numerous times. Crowley was, quite simply, asleep, though not peacefully.

Unfortunately, if the maidservant found him this way, there would be...well, Hell to reckon with, if not exorcisms.

‘You might try lying down,’Aziraphale suggested, and slid beneath the covers, hoping, vainly, that he might encourage by example, ‘as such’. Crowley thrashed again, his legs now arching backwards through the air.

Aziraphale couldn’t help it, he knew he shouldn’t but...well… it seemed the right thing at the time. With his mind, he reached out. 

_Crowley…_

There, was the strange, dark, buzzing presence of the demon, rendered chaotic by sleep.

_Crowley - lie down. Come back to bed._

Aziraphale waited until the message seemed to diffuse into the demon, then he retracted into his corporeal form, feeling a tad embarrassed. He wasn’t even sure why he’d phrased it that way… it sounded a bit… well. He blamed Milton, and only hoped Crowley wouldn’t remember, though in his defence, he could argue he thought mainly of the morning chamber maid, poor girl.

Moment’s later, Crowley’s face relaxed, and he melted downward into the bed, feet over head.

‘Oh thank heavens,’ whispered Aziraphale, and pulled the tangled cover over him.

‘Szzzzzzziii,’ sighed Crowley, who flipped towards him, and then lay still, flush with his side.

‘Just...stay that way,’ whispered Aziraphale, with no particular conviction, and delicately removed Crowley’s hair from where it had tumbled across his face, adding, ‘fiend,’ for good measure. He wondered if he could count this as a successful thwarting. Crowley slept on. 

Fed up with the buzz of Milton, Cleland, and everybody else, Aziraphale tried, unprecedentedly, to turn off his thought stream. Perhaps he had overreacted. Perhaps he just needed practice at sleeping to make it work correctly. Minutes later, lulled by the warmth, gentle hissing beside him, and sheer bloody mindedness, he succeeded in dropping into a gentle doze.

If only he hadn’t.

_ 'You might try lying down...'  _ (this one by me...)

...

Crowley was warm. Crowley was of the abyss, vaguely serpentine, and had an image to project which couldn’t be hampered by unnecessary layers, and as such was always slightly colder than he’d like to be. The chill of being cast out of the Almighty’s love, and choosing to wear the most revealing of breeches, and whatnot.

But now, Crowley was warm. Very warm. Radiatingly, pulsingly warm. He didn’t so much come to his senses, as become aware that he was having the same dream again. The one about the sunlight. He turned about, basking in it, loath to open his eyes. This time the dream was different though, louder, stronger, if dreams had substance. He turned over and the warmth didn’t just shine down on him, but was all around him. Above him, around him and...underneath him.

This was strange.

Slowly, he opened his eyes the smallest bit and light streamed into his consciousness. He was still dreaming. He was vaguely aware of grass, or the impression of grass, if grass was made only of light, and the smell of sky and earth and warmth and petrichor. So much petrichor. It was the first rain after a drought, and the primordial stream in earth’s parched canyons, and the first breath of spring, and the breaking summer storm, and the loam-filled hollow of every tree.

He opened his eyes further, and the light seemed to stream into his mind, if he had a mind. He felt rather incorporeal. At first, the light seemed to be everywhere. Gradually though, he saw it had a source, and the source had a form, of sorts. It was, in some ways, a man-shaped form, in others, it had no substance at all. In some ways, it appeared to have wings, sweeping, white, beating with a thousand holy winds, in others, it appeared to have the faintest glint of reading spectacles.

The presence was, quite clearly, Aziraphale.

Crowley slithered, shimmied, and coalesced closer, and Aziraphale beheld him.

Crowley was not just Crowley, but all his forms, some slithering, some winged, some with hair like spilled mead, and all darkness, but when Aziraphale beheld him, the angel’s joy radiated like a pulsing brand.

 _CROWLEY_ Aziraphale’s recognition was like a smile, and a spark, and the deepest day of summer, _I’m glad you’re here, these dreams are funny things. Not sure I’ve quite got them right._

_I don’t think this is a dream. Think it’s the astor, astro - you know, the other plane thingy_

_The reality within all realities?_

_Yeah, that one_

_That would explain where my nightshirt’s gone_ the warmth shimmered distractedly

_You’re very warm this way_

_Am I? I suppose I am. You’re like still water, if it were also a flame, and the stars over midsummer_

Crowley looked down, and it was fairly accurate. _funny, I expected scales. Words aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, here are they?_

Aziraphale laughed and it rang endlessly, like crystal bells, and the sun shimmering in beech leaves, _Come closer will you?_

Crowley did, gladly, until he was face to face (if they had faces) with the light that was Aziraphale.

_Closer?_

Crowley came closer still, until he was completely engulfed. Everything was at once wonderful. The light did not burn him, but at once was in him, and around him. He could feel himself in it too - the shadows, the night, the stars, the void - spiralling through, and he thought of galaxies and nebulae. 

_Where are you?_ He thought and the thought was everywhere

 _Here. WE are._ And indeed, they were.

 _CROWLEY_ the angel thought warmly, and this time it was both Crowley’s name, and his being, and his name before names, and other things as well - friend, and adversary and something that tasted like _beloved_. 

_AZIRAPHALE_ he responded, and he felt joy radiate from the angel’s spirit. It felt like the tremendous beginning of something even more tremendous. The light, the warmth, the tangling continued to grow ever brighter, ever more complete, as though they were spinning inward on themselves, like the galaxies Crowley once helped create. Brighter and warmer they burned, ever more one spirit, until he didn’t know where either began and the other ended. At once, he feared what the end would bring, and with that inkling of fear, his eyes snapped open.

...

‘-Ziraphale!’ he gasped at the air, completely disorientated.

He was tangled, and the air was warm and the warmth was pulsing, and the dream was alive, and it was breathing, and pressing wet lips against his, and sliding humid skin against his own.

It was definitely, bodily, Aziraphale. Crowley nearly leapt out of his own skin. Literally. He would have, had Aziraphale’s eyes not also sprung open.

Strong physical and metaphysical arms grasped him firmly, preventing his spirit from leaping through the ether, and discorporating one, if not both of them. Their spirits were very much tangled at their borders, their bodies were following along as best possible.

Their eyes met, and there was no question of going back. It was too late. What was happening had already happened. It was also still ongoing and yet to come, and not of that night but all nights, and every millennium in which they’d walked the earth together. It had been ongoing for eons, yet might have also crawled on imperceptibly but for the metaphysical dam that had broken that night. 

Crowley could not bear to think of the end. His body was singing in a metaphysical overload, his spirit was knotted up in Aziraphale’s, he felt warm for the first time in millennia, and beloved for the first time since he’d fallen. But Aziraphale’s wide gaze suggested the confines of reality were closing in. He had but moments.

‘Don’t stop?’ he whispered, desperately.

‘Oh, my darling!’ cried Aziraphale, eyes shining, and drew him close, and closer than close, and then closer.

Physical bodies are not made to contain or process surges of ethereal (or indeed, occult) energy. Their attempts to translate these experiences into something corporeal often leads to unseemly results. Demonic possession tends to trigger the more unpleasant sensations, leading to outstanding displays of projectile vomit, blood, rolling eyes, and vertebrae forgetting the bounds of reality, depending on the inhabiting demon. On the other hand divine ecstasy, as the name suggests, tends to hit the more pleasurable sensors, which can be particularly embarrassing if your religious sales-pitch was based on celibacy and kneeling on granite flagstones, but the Almighty has a sense of humour, and does not discriminate on the grounds of unusual fetishes.

In the case of Aziraphale and Crowley, they were both feeling the effects of something that was not really either one of these, so their bodies were having a hell (or something) of a time making heads or tails of it. In the stress of it all, Aziraphale's corporation had veered towards factory reset, and had somewhat less coiffure and more glow than the evening prior, while Crowley currently had somewhat more vertebrae in his legs. Aziraphale’s nightshirt had done the decent thing and incinerated, leaving only the faintest whiff of burnt linen.

Crowley’s nerves were on sensory overload, and he writhed uncontrollably - every point where his body touched Aziraphale’s (which was most of the possible points) caused an eruption of electric arias across his skin. Aziraphale was experiencing a similar sensation, plus the impression of chocolate mousse and the best champagne, and fresh oysters, and browned butter, and sharp Sicilian lemons, all of which were Crowley. His mouth, as noted above, was one of numerous parts that were attempting to imitate the spiritual fusion taking place, in between which, it was spouting off a litany of very embarrassing and tender notions in all existing languages (and a few non-extant ones) most of which translated as _beloved_ , and all the rest too tender to relate, or ever be thought upon again. This is usually referred to as 'speaking in tongues', but also usually involves less tongue than was strictly present here. Each word broke over Crowley like a thousand small pleasurable deaths, which he passed back to Aziraphale, and so their oscillating dance continued.

This went on for an indeterminate amount of time, during which the transcendental forcefield over the cottage finally split, and the accompanying gale pelted itself about, until eventually both it and the rather confused spirits within settled out into a sort of calm. Exhausted, both bodies dropped into a genuine (and extremely sticky) sleep.

( _William Blake, fan artist_ _extraordinaire_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- yes, those are all regency words for exactly what you think are  
> \- descriptions of hair (love's proper hue, hyacythine, etc) are all from Paradise Lost  
> \- The 'astral plane' is the term Crowley is looking for


	17. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning dawns on our rogue agents, and all is topsy turvy. Will Aziraphale find a nightshirt in time? Will Crowley regain the normal number of leg joints? Whatever is to be done?
> 
> Featuring: a note, a flight, and two proposition.

Crowley awoke to the sound of knocking. There was a horrified gulp, whatever he was laying on was ripped out from under him, and he was suddenly a lot colder.

The knock came again, ‘Headache!’ he cried, as Aziraphale yelped ‘Go away!’ with exactly as much calm as an oil lamp on a bonfire.

He opened an eye to see a very naked Aziraphale gesture elaborately with his hand. His dressing gown and nightcap flew at him. In addition, the wardrobe drawers and trunk all flew open, and his hair sprouted ringlets which tumbled down to the floor.

‘Oh! Oh dear!’ he gestured once more, and the hair became short again, but all the candles in the room took to flame.

Crowley opened the second eye.

Aziraphale turned hesitatingly to him, eyes wide with fear and regret as he wrung the nightcap in his hands. ‘Are you alright, my de- my- Crowley?’

Crowley pushed himself up off the mattress. ‘Ngg.’ He looked down. A fragment of singed blue ribbon was tangled between his right fingers. The implications of the charring suddenly coalesced in his mind, and he looked up at Aziraphale frantically, reaching out with his senses to taste for sulphur, ‘Are you? Angel?’

At the touch of Crowley’s energy, Aziraphale jumped back as though burnt ‘Oh! Yes. Yes I’m quite…’ he looked guiltier than sin, ‘untainted. For the time being.’ He took in a shaky little breath, ‘My dear boy, I’ve had the strangest-’

‘No!’ Crowley stopped him, a sick feeling swimming through him, ‘That...whatever that was... wasn’t a dream. If you’re even going to pretend- just forget it, I’ll leave!’ He leapt out of bed and nearly fell over ‘argh- fuckin - ligaments’ he imagined femurs.

‘Oh dear!’ Aziraphale winced, ‘I wasn’t going to- I meant to say I believe this was _my_ fault. I was reading Milton, and I’ve been so overwhelmed by all these…’ he waved his hand at the air, ‘excess emotions, and the tension…’ which he noticed were all but gone, ‘I...must have lost...control.’

‘You’re fault?’ Crowley straightened up, ‘Don’t think it could be your fault… I mean, I was there too, what with all the light and the...er-’ he swizzled his hand in the air, ‘and then with the words and the lips and the-’ (he waved his hand in a faceward direction) ‘and the-’ (he waved his hand in a less faceward direction) ‘and what I’m saying is, you’ve read an awful lot of queerer things than Milton and it’s not like we ever…guuhh…..drank one too many and acted out Fanny Hill… or revisited the Earl of Rochester on the astral plane. At least I never have. You?’

‘No! No, I suppose you’re right, I haven’t either. Oh Crowley, do put something on would you, you’re all…’ he looked waistward. 

Crowley gave him an incredulous sneer and followed his eye. Ok, he could see where the angel was coming from, ‘Eurgh! Who thought these bodies were a good idea?’ He wondered idly just how many sets of genitals he must have manifested last night to have resulted in _that_. 

‘We were nearly glued together…’ whispered Aziraphale, in the smallest voice, glowing coral pink, but not looking away. 

Crowley snapped his fingers, and they were both much tidier. The bed also regained one non-scorched sheet, an extra set of pillows, and a bedside bouquet of roses, which Crowley hadn’t intended. Crowley eyed his hand suspiciously.

‘I’m also feeling a bit...off…’ blushed Aziraphale. He waved his hand, and his hair sprung out again, this time in thrice the volume as normal, and looking like it best belonged in a Botticelli, ‘Last time it was ringlets,’ he said regretfully, waving it away. The roses burst into full bloom. ‘though I think it’s getting better. I think perhaps until we settle a bit more, it might be best to avoid any excess handywork?’

Crowley groaned, and lurched over to the wardrobe, finding an outfit the hard way. They’d arranged it so that every morning, the lady’s maid took a lovely break, or a stroll, or had herself a pastry, and conveniently forgot she wasn’t tending to their hair instead. It wouldn’t do for her to see Crowley’s hair doing itself.

Unfortunately, this now left Aziraphale to string Crowley’s stays. He did with a gentle, jumpy guilt, which Crowley hated. Aziraphale’s presence pulsed behind Crowley’s eyes, while Crowley’s skin felt reluctant to hold him in. He just wanted to go back to bed. Ideally, with Aziraphale, and more ideally, forever.

‘Shall I … try with your hair?’

Crowley hadn’t thought, but now that he did, he thought he was likely to mobilise his hair into something more akin to Medusa than anything, so he sat. Aziraphale took a small brush and began untangling the disaster that had been made of Crowley’s tresses. Neither said anything for a long time.

Crowley’s eyes fell on a folded letter on the desk. The writing looked … gilded.

‘Aziraphale... was that note here before?’

The brush dropped to the floor with a clatter.

‘Ohhhh.’ It was like a bellows deflating. He reached a shaking hand to it, and delicately broke the seal.

Crowley felt he should do something, and put a finger delicately over Aziraphale’s knuckles, where they gripped the chair back.

‘What is it?’ he inhaled as Aziraphale read.

Aziraphale breathed deeply once, twice, and again.

‘Oh my. Oh my dear. It’s- it’s nothing!’

‘What?!’

‘Nothing at all - look-’ he held it out.

> ‘ _Here be the expenses claim FORM and certificate to be redeemed at any INN, if bee there roome. Please return all claims in triplicate with expenses and mileage, and chariot allowance detailed…_.’

Aziraphale laughed a bit hysterically. Very hysterically. The paper disappeared into motes of dust, and he bent to retrieve the brush. 

He resumed brushing Crowley’s hair with a shaking hand.

Eventually, he spoke, hesitatingly, ‘was there...do you suppose… was there a lag time, with Heaven?’ he gently tapped between Crowley’s shoulders, where his wings would spring.

‘Errr no. It’s… pretty black and white. One minute you’re having a nice chat and the next - universe-long plunge into a pit of boiling sulphur. Didn’t even leave me time to lay the question mark on that last question…’

‘Oh,’ said Aziraphale, though with little apparent relief.

‘So it looks like you’re safe.’

‘Will your side…?’ 

Crowley shook his head, ‘Doubt it. Would’ve heard already. They love good apparition by fireplace. I wouldn’t still be here if they had.’

 _‘Crowley_ ,’ cried the Angel shakily, ‘you could have been destroyed if it went wrong! I could have destroyed you, or they could have-’

‘Nah, angel, don’t be like that. It didn’t and I wasn’t, so…’

Aziraphale gave a little sniff but continued running his fingers through Crowley’s hair. They both allowed the pretence that this was somehow helpful.

‘Even so…’ Aziraphale said, after a time, ‘it might be best - safer - I mean, if we don’t. If we don’t…’ an idle finger petted the back of Crowley’s neck. 

‘Don’t what,’ Crowley rasped, even though they both knew what. 

‘Crowley - I didn’t even notice the message come in! Anything could have happened!’

‘But it didn’t.’

‘No. But we can’t be sure. We can’t… I’ve been weak, Crowley, and I mustn’t!’ with a defeated flick of Aziraphale’s wrist, Crowley’s hair did itself. ‘I still don’t even understand what happened! I can guess at the _what,_ but not the _why_ , or the _why now_.’

‘Maybe it _was_ yours then, you know what your side’s like. No reason, just pop by to drop you in something. Or off something.’

‘Crowley!’

‘I need to attend Archer,’ said Crowley, ‘hell waits for no man.’

‘My dear, you mustn’t-’ delicate fingertips alighted again on his shoulder.

‘Really must - can’t risk a visit from the tail honcho.’ He rose, ‘see ya, Angel.’

‘Crowley!’

‘I _have_ to,’ he said, more softly, ‘you know that.’

Aziraphale exhaled, looking at Crowley with pleading eyes. Crowley’s breath caught like an anchor in his throat.

This time, they both knew exactly what a person should be doing in that situation. It hung on their skin and in the air and on every tiny dust mote between them, singing viciously.

Crowley was accustomed to embracing temptations, so it was with tremendous effort, significant regret, and no small loss of professional pride, that he managed not to. Aziraphale’s lovely pink lip trembled, well, temptingly. _Beloved._

‘Hng,’ Crowley choked out, and fled.

( _Nice red shoes...at least, they look like shoes_ )

Aziraphale descended some time later to find the house in a state of disarray.

‘Oh Angelina, are you feeling better,’ exclaimed Miss Easton, taking Aziraphale’s hand.

‘Yes?’ ventured Aziraphale, feeling queer, and bereft, and like he’d been jammed incorrectly back into his own skin.

‘I’m so glad!’ exuded Anne with far more energy that was normal, ‘For I have the most wonderful tidings to share with you!’

Aziraphale was not certain he could handle any tidings at this point, much less ones that purported to be wonderful, but hear them he must. Thus he learned that the apple tree had been split in the storm, the neighbours lost half their fence, and the pony ran off, but more importantly that Mr Dawlings had stopped by the very first thing when they were not even finished with breakfast.

‘And papa in his undress!’

‘And me!’ exclaimed Mrs Easton, ‘both of us, can you imagine, in our dressing gowns! And Mr Easton nearly in his nightcap.’

‘I was in no such thing.’

‘And then he explained that Mr Archer no less had absconded in the night, of a late hour, after receiving ill news from London. He left the letter to Mr Dawlings with no promise to return! Mr Archer had thought we might best receive word from a friend, since we had known him closely,’ said Anne, with a meaningful look to Aziraphale. 

‘And who would believe it from a man other than our own parson? To be so deceived! And we all thought Mr Archer such a charming and honourable young man. A blessing we did not let him closer all these years. I for one was never taken in, that’s for certain, I always thought he had an ill look about him.’

‘Yes, a blessing indeed,’ said Anne, soberly, glancing again at Aziraphale, ‘You may read the letter, if you like, but it is all more alarming than even I would have thought possible.’

‘Those poor girls!’ exclaimed Mrs Easton.

‘And then, Mr Dawlings asked me if I might wish for a walk, where he expressed that he admired me, but had not wished to say so, under the false,’ she again glanced meaningfully at Aziraphale, ‘understanding that the gentleman, Mr Archer had also expressed an admiration. But now that Archer has made his true nature clear for all to see...well.’

‘As though we would have ever supported a man like Archer!’ interjected Mrs Easton, ‘I had seen right through him from the start, and didn’t you, Mr Easton? Never a less trustworthy man, said I. Not the type one would trust in the family, much less in matters of business, not that I know anything of those, yet even as a young man, didn’t I say Mr Archer, that he had ever a roguish look about him, and that we ought to do more to question that business in London!’

‘You did?’ said Mr Archer vaguely, ‘yes, I suppose you did.’

‘I most certainly did! Did I not, Anne? Better an honest parson, than a dishonest gentleman, if you can call him that!’

Anne produced a practised smile, ‘Yes, well, Mr Dawlings has asked for my hand, and I have accepted it.’

Mr Easton grunted.

‘And we are _very pleased_ are we not, Mr Easton.’ 

‘Better than the alternative,’ said Mr Easton.

‘Well, my dear, I for one am tremendously pleased, and I wish many blessings upon your marriage,’ said Aziraphale with great relief.

‘Oh thank you!’ glowed Anne, taking Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale looked heavenward. Assignment fulfilled.

...

Crowley returned hours later.

‘He’s gone.’ he said, when he got the chance.

‘I heard.’

‘Ran off in the night - got word.’

‘Where’s he gone to?’

‘No idea- traced him as far as Southampton, dock end.’

‘But the letter wasn’t yours?’

‘Nope! Wish it had been! Could’ve been out of here weeks ago if I’d known that’s all it would take! I mean, it will be on the report of course…’ he waved his hand.

‘How odd, as you heard, my business has also been resolved. Dawlings had a change of heart, or a temporary change of courage. He proposed to Anne this morning.’

‘Any word as to why?’

‘No… the storm broke, and he showed up on the doorstep this morning.’

‘Odd.’

‘You could say that. It’s almost a bit...well... _ineffable._ ’ he mouthed. Crowley winced, and they both glanced upwards. Nothing happened.

‘Feels better. Fresher,’ Crowley said, and stretched luxuriously.

‘Yes, one can breathe more easily now - all that unfinished business was stifling.’

‘Back to London?’

‘Indeed, I hear...er “mother” requires us. Of course, I have my business in Chawton first, so we’d best divide up.’

‘That’s riiight. Some writer strike your fancy?’

‘Yes, a young woman - I came across one of her manuscripts by chance, and it was really quite clever!’

‘Eugh, it was a romance, wasn’t it angel. Something warm, and full of goodness, and charity, and feeeelings.’

‘Actually it rather made fun of well, everyone, really. And cleverly at that. But yes, there was a romance somewhere as well.’

‘Hmm, well send her my regards. Or my commendation.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

…...

Silence descended on them as they packed. Aziraphale’s hand did not dare shake as he folded his nighties and gloves. Miss Crowfell was in her final hours, and soon life would return to normal in London. 

‘Aziraphale, your fan,’ Crowley handed over one of the two.

‘Oh...keep it, if you want.’

‘I won’t use it.’

‘You never know…’

‘I won’t,’ he put it in his reticule anyway, ‘Well, that’s me then. Goodbye Easton Sisters. Well, goodbye at the next coaching inn, anyway.’

‘Yes,’ Aziraphale smiled wanly, and rose from his packed trunk. He glanced about the room. Everything in order. His glance strayed to the bed, and he looked quickly away, only to catch Crowley doing the same. Their eyes met. He blushed, and studied his toes.

Crowley cleared his throat and said nothing.

They left the room.

….

The coach was quiet for many miles down the road. Aziraphale’s hair was bound with a deep coral ribbon, decorated by a single fresh rose. Crowley, whose brooch now boasted a small bow of singed blue ribbon, tried not to look, or think. Aziraphale tried not to wonder if, had he not been so very panicked the night before, he might have known all of Crowley’s mind, as well as all the other bits. It had all been rather fast. And marvellous. And he really ought never to consider it again. Or to think of Crowley’s unspeakable unspeakables. Or anything else about Crowley which was far too dangerous for either of them to have.

‘I fear you may think me a coward…’ said Aziraphale, after many desperate miles.

‘A coward? Naah - with bosses like ours?’.

‘Still. I feel perhaps I owe you an apology,’ he continued, picking at his reticule. 

‘Ngk. Don’t- no. Noyoudon’t.’ Crowley gasped, ‘Angel.’

‘I erm. I was thinking, you know, I keep hearing about this Grand Tour people are doing,’ Aziraphale laughed nervously, ‘and I haven’t had the chance, myself. I was thinking, well, once I’ve made my visit to Chawton House, it might be nice to revisit some old haunts. I do miss Athens…’ he sighed, ‘You could say I’ve been inspired by all this...Classi-cism. And erm I was wondering if...perhaps… I’d heard rumours of a demonic influence in...in those parts. That I ought to look into.’

‘Demonic influence?’ said Crowley, ears pricking up.

‘Yees,’ hesitated Aziraphale, ‘I’m not entirely sure… it’s just a rumour, you see… but I heard there might have been a serpentine..ish demon… perhaps. Causing trouble. Lurking about the area.’

‘Athens, you say? You know, I’ve been meaning to check in on the old illicit antiquities trade. A few cursed objects that might need updating…’

‘You don’t say!’ said Aziraphale.

‘I hear tell of very fine, very dark cocoa[1] in Venice - I don’t know about the forces of darkness, but might be worth investigating too…’

‘Oh, capital!’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Chocolate at this time was not at all dark but rather light and frothy, so a dark chocolate would have been worth investigating indeed.
> 
> In case you hadn't already looked it up, Aziraphale is visiting a Miss Austen. No doubt they have a chat about his recent adventure.


	18. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere in Venice...

It was a peachy, humid afternoon along the Canal Grande, as most afternoons had been that week. From a fifteenth-century balcony, two beings that were older than the stolen marbles of San Marco’s facade, and older than the islands’ wood and mud foundations, gazed eastward over the cerulean water towards what was once Arkadia, and beyond, what was once Byzantium, and beyond that…

A small tap alerted them to the presence of the valet, with two missives, one, on purest white card, with delicate gold writing. The other looked like it may have suffered an encounter with the surrounding swamp, or worse, that it may have been sent by the swamp itself. Each gentleman took his respective note, and the butler disappeared.

‘It would seem,’ said Aziraphale, ‘that our man Archer has transferred his Antigua enterprise to his good friend and mentor, a Mr Eastman.’

‘That’s funny, says here a Mr Archer, _rode forth from Hampshire on a traille of darke and drunken destruction and cavorting_ before becoming infected with… eurgh…and... errm… well, I’ll spare you those...anyway now that it’s fallen off he’s _convaleszing & has transferred his infernal profitts to a Fitzwilliam Eastman _ who has put it to devilish use!’

‘Devilish? My dear man, I believe you’re mistaken there - he’s used it for good. All investments it seems, have gone into founding a charitable institution. A _house of works wherein shall be redeemed the worthy debtor_. I’ve received a commendation from Gabriel himself!’

‘Commendation? No kidding, me too… says _firstlee_ _for the soul of Archer_ , well that was a foregone conclusion, and moreover for the founding of an _infernal institution of perpetual and inescapable punishment for debtorszzz, called the Worke House._ ’

‘Er I. Oh dear.’

Both contemplated their letters in silence, before Crowley spoke.

‘Wasn’t Gabriel the one who thought an unplanned pregnancy would bring an impoverished teenager "tidings of great joy"?’

‘He does...somewhat...struggle… with the finer points of human existence… Shall we call it a draw then?’

Crowley raised his glass hastily, and his letter dissipated into a cloud of mosquitoes, ‘to a bad job done... and all that.’

‘Quite,’ said Aziraphale, as his missive dissolved into a fine gold dust, which disappeared on the eastward breeze, as if it had never been there at all. They both smiled.

> _Let it suffice thee that thou knowest us happy, and without love no happiness._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for now.  
> Do they shag their way across the Mediterranean? Possibly. Will I write about it? Tempting. Do they only decide to lay off when their supernatural rumpy pumpington dubiously coincides with a climate-changing eruption in 1815... best not dwell on it.
> 
> The last line is from Paradise Lost again.


	19. Illustrations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More illustrations - by me! I'll update these ones as I finish them.  
> I'll also put them in the appropriate chapter eventually.

In progress - Miniatures of Mme Crowley and Mr Fell (ca 1780). Soon to be featuring pink hair powder...

* * *

_'You might try lying down...' (illustration to Chapter 16)_


	20. Portraits of Mme Crowley and Mr Fell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OR the portraits of 'mother' and 'father' Crowley summons from Aziraphale's bookshop in Chapter 4...

Mme Crowley and Mr Fell, ca 1780 

Acrylic on paper, by me

* * *

**References**

(whether you want them or not)

**Crowley**

_John Smart, Portrait of a Lady, 1781, Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga, Lisbon_

Dress based on, among others - <https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/642392>

**Aziraphale**

Based on this equally pink-haired gentleman <http://www.sothebys.com/en/auctions/ecatalogue/2018/pohl-stroher-collection-l18322/lot.54.html>

And this gentleman's splendid wing-like jacket decoration <http://www.wigsonthegreen.co.uk/portrait/maccaroni-club/>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sketch of this plus an illustration to Crowley's exorcism-worthy wall sleeping in previous chapter.


End file.
